Sunstroke
by KnightwhosaysN1
Summary: Many people still remember the sun shining through the clouds and smog, washing London in dull light. Now that the city relocated to the depths of the Earth and acclimated to the new heavens above them, quite a few yearn for that enormous ball of fire in the sky. Unfortunately, the relapse might be more than one can handle...
1. The Journal of Hera Rottenwald 1875

16, September, 1875

To whom it may concern;

I, in preparation for my ventures into the earth's soggy underbelly, took it upon myself to continuously write this diary as a two-fold piece of documentation: One to serve selfishly as a reminder of past ruminations, the other to log the tribulations leading to my unfortunate but all too plausible demise. But a biography by definition requires a once live, once flesh, once named individual, otherwise it would pass as fiction, and after so much tumult experienced in a life, that would truly be a fate... not nearly worse or as close to death, but certainly disappointing.

So I reveal that I by birth am named Hera Rottenwald (pronounced "rote-en-vald" though the obvious tends to maintain popularity despite my vain attempts to reverse it), daughter of Helen and Richard of the same family. By trade, I write verse, by necessity, I break legs at various establishments; in an effort to boost my abilities in the former, and eliminate my dependence on the latter, I embark upon a ship to explore the wide Unterzee as a prolific captain of the Neath. After budgeting my expenses economically for well over a year, subsisting off of the most paltry of nourishment humanly possible as an ascetic dedicated in entirety to her art, I finally acquiesced the capital to purchase a Limpet, her crew, and initial supplies. I only say purchased in a loose sense, as a personal friend of mine, one Ganymede Koch, persuaded a Disavowed Mariner to charitably sell his poor steamer at discount for fear of not selling it at all, and he happily took the meager collections of echoes, amber, and kind encouragements I could give him. Thus came I by the beautiful, newly christened, _Apocryphal Cannon_ , barely on the water and already worn like the rags of a tomb-colonist.

Her crew bared an equally rugged look about them, though I previously heard about how the zailors of Wolfstack maintained more the consistency of a Clay-Man than a fleshy one, I still felt a bit of shock seeing these hardy men and women storming about on deck. I fear I will never know the names of all my crew, partly because my ability to associate names and faces still lacks any real effectiveness since my childhood days, partly because they will likely die before either becomes relevant to my interests. The one I did remember, not the name but their existence, the Relenting Bo-sun, I knew beforehand as a reliable Zeeman. I called him as such because he would often abdicate his position almost immediately if I began even a minor tirade against him, his soul consisted of less firm stuff than that of the other crewman, but his nerves consisted of the toughest steel in the stress of crisis. No matter what I can imagine happening, I expect always relying on him for support in the situations relating more toward that of the Zee and combat, while I focus more on keeping up morale and handling diplomacy.

My initial plan for entrepreneurship lies in the boredom of the tomb-colonies, primarily Venderblight, as their desire for excitement drives them to drinking copious liters of mushroom wine per day. Thus, the law of supply and demand states that the obvious answer to prosperity ought to be in the wine trade, so I ask the Bo-sun to point us northbound toward colonies.

We leave in just 30 minutes, and I must attend to the last minute preparations with the Admiralty and the rest of the crew, thus we shall continue more anon. Until then... aufweidersehen.

* * *

17, September, 1875

It's only been about 7 hours but I feel an urgent desire to write what I've seen. The Zee is so... strange. I only ever saw it from Wolfstack where the ships constantly stirred the waters and disturbed them. But out here... it's calm.

Just calm

The Zee is an eternal plain of basalt stretched along infinity, coated in black-emerald lacquer and fluid in the consistency of slime, or so it seems until it laps the sides of the ship where it breaks more like real water. I scooped up a cup of the stuff, simply to check its taste, and it tasted like salt and sulfur mixed in a metallic faucet water, truly something unexpected. I wonder if someone has yet to sell Zee water as a miracle tonic? If not, I could attempt to extract customer interest with some flowery words and abuse legal terminology to avoid culpability for any possible side effects they may encounter... but I prefer the constables never open a(nother) file on me in the foreseeable future.

The rest of the crew seems to take this silence well for the most part, the lights of London still sparkle faintly in the fog; when we stop seeing those, then begins the true adventure, and the true terror.

I asked the engines to be cut for the purposes of observing the serenity and darkness. When only the lapping of the waves, the muttering of zailors, and your own breathing separates you from the sheer senselessness what lies beyond your own body, you feel overwhelmed by the weight of the universe crushing the your sense of self. Naught seven hours had passed and I believe I could pull enough material for the next two decades.

I only hope I live that long...

* * *

19 September, 1875

We encountered a swarm of rabid zee-bats just a few minutes ago, and I still shake with force of recoil from all the shooting. When I initially saw the swarm, I anticipated little, expecting them to disperse once the light shined into the black mass of winged mammals, and I was gravely mistaken. They flocked like, well, moths I suppose, and began tearing into the ship's boards and hull, taking some of the food left on deck from the stocks. The zailors reacted faster than I did, immediately jumping to the Leadbeatter cannon and grabbing some of the rifles on hand. After coming to my senses, I too joined in the fray with a repeater I bought for such an occasion. We set about firing into the largest concentrations of the furry beasts, a cheeky zailor even packing some nails into the cap of a shell before firing it with the cannon. The rodents fell in droves, some in my hair unfortunately, thrashing about before they died which simultaneous gave me a terrible fright and ruined my innocent hairdo.

After some fighting, the disgusting creatures fled from the volleys, sensing they'd lost enough fellows already. Feeling particularly vexed by this most heinous offense, I demanded the d_able things get thrown in the pot for cooking. The zailors gasped with shock, as if I committed blasphemy! As it turned out, it was because I did.

"What has them in a twist?" I asked the Bo-sun

"Yer askin' 'em to eat scared animals is what yer doin'. Bats is sacred to Salt, n' Salt ain't somethin' yous wanna set off easy."

He went on to explain the three Gods of the Zee that zailors feared and revered: Stone, Storm, and Salt. He explained them as such:

Stone represented Healing, Strength, and Vitality. They most associated her with the solid earth of the Neath, hence the name, and her blessing meant good health.

Storm represented Rage, Violence, and War. Where he reigned, conflict followed inevitably. He threw his fits in the roof of the cave, and most associate him with the weather of the Neath, whenever it rarely occurs.

Salt represented the East, Mysteries, and Farewells. As befitting of its domain, the God itself was a searing enigma ill defined by human comprehension like describing colour to a blind man. Few things could I ascertain about this deity, but that meant I joined in the majority.

After this little theology lesson, I elected to cook them regardless; if they wished to cost me twenty echoes for ruining my hair, they would spare me twenty echoes for a good zailing's worth of rations. The crew protested in their hesitance to carry out orders, and I can still hear lamentations from the superstitious dunces, so you'll excuse me while I berate them a bit for their procrastination.

* * *

21 September, 1875

Good lord is Venderblight dull. When one hears "Tomb Colonies," one might expect something of at least morbid intrigue. Unfortunately, not so with this disgusting leper colony. (I apologize for the previous statement, my bitterness overtook my good sense, I mean the people no offense or ill will)

If one describes cities as bustling, then I would describe Venderblight as shuffling. Instead of walking around, they shuffle around. They don't walk to the store, they shuffle there. Nobody here takes a leisurely walk, rather, they duel to the death. They actually do that a lot, because dying is awfully difficult in the colonies, so they have ample opportunity to practice.

After offloading the shipment of mushroom wine and receiving payment, I allowed for shore-leave, and began wandering the city to take in the dusty air. The architecture varies wildly from street to street, as do the people. Though not my strong suite, I detected marked differences between the styles of construction besides the traditional British copied off London, some oriental, some Mesoamerican, a few I could not tell but they looked ancient Middle Eastern in nature. Most of the people I met simply coughed a greeting or stumbled on past without giving me a second thought, they seemed to have more on their mind than common courtesy could curtail.

After the walk I grew hungry, and searched for anything that would not taste of dust for lunch. I stumbled upon some heavenly smells emanating from a cramped little hole-in-the-wall apartment turned kitchen called "The Vengeance of Jonah" and took a look inside. The owner himself, the Bandaged Poisonner, greeted me, showing to my seat, preparing the table, and generally acting as my waiter. It appeared cozy enough; like the rest of the city, a fine layer of dust coated most of the furniture, which itself was likely older than me, however it added to the sense of amicable familiarity of the restaurant, like no piece lacked a story to it. He made chit-chat, more so talked my ear off to be honest, about his extensive list of customers, above and below ground. He went on for seemingly hours, though none of his anecdotes ever bored, all before he even stepped in the kitchen (Business was terribly slow). When he actually began cooking, olfactory Elysium ensued. Scents familiar to most Neathers floated through the restaurant, zzoup, muttersalt, and mushroom wine I all detected, but wild, fantastical derived from no flora or fauna I knew intermingled with others. Inhaling the fumes made me dream of uncharted lands of the Elder Continent, surrounded by life I thought totally impossible, animals and plants of incomprehensible features so unlike my own I could naught but believe this was no longer Earth.

At last the food arrived and... words fail me. Shall I compare it to a summer's day? No, no summer day was or ever will be as bright and vibrant as the taste of the vegetables that lined the plate. What of the feeling of overwhelming vigor when one conquers and destroys their adversaries utterly? It still fails to describe the thickness and richness of the meat, whatever animal it came from. How about that particular tone of melancholy where man contemplates its own existence to emerge with renewed purpose in their life? But lacking the subtle nuance of flavors in the sauce that tastefully lay in neat zig-zags on the meal, such a statement cannot adequately describe such beauty. I do not know much about cooking styles, but it conformed to no country I knew of, not even Neath-dwelling ones. I took more and more bites, each smaller, attempting to savor the glorious food I knew would not last, and as the last crumbs accumulated on the plate, I burst into tears, lamenting the loss of such magnificence. I paid extra and left with salty streams down my cheeks.

The crew believed the god Salt had overtaken me, and were preparing to perform a ritual when I explained that it was simply something I ate. The Relenting Bo-sun asked what could cause such sorrow, and I explained that sorrow constituted the lesser part of it, more so joy than anything else.

"Appreciate what you had," I explained to the Bo-sun, "Love what remains, even if it is only the memory."

* * *

6 October, 1875

I apologize for my infrequency in writing, but very little of note happened in the last two weeks. We ferried wine back and forth, back and forth, and back and forth to Venderblight, generally for awful pay, I barely make a profit after including the cost of coke and supplies. On the other hand, I became well acquainted with the sisters on Hunter's Keep after an incident forced us to land. Very amicable folks, if a bit strange. They tell fantastically enthralling stories, I find myself drawn to the Keep every time we pass by to speak with them.

I grow tired of the Tomb-Colonies and their overly familiar route, but I overheard of a fortuitous little entrepreneurial opportunity in the Iron Republic. Well, actually, an insane captain jabbered about it in the Blind Helmsmen before some constables dragged him away, but he gave quite the description of the place. Apparently, one of the markets there gives a good price for bales of parabola-linen, one simply needs to find it among the total chaos of the principality. The route I planned out goes through the Cumean Canal, Iron Republic, and back again passing by Mutton Island for some drinks at the Cock and Magpie. From what I hear, the Admiralty always hungers for reports on Republic, assuming they are legible. But, really, what is the worst that could happen in a place liberated from all laws?

Knowing the Iron Republic, I will be eating those words... maybe literally.

* * *

14 October, 1875

Endlich! Jemand da versteht Deutsch im diese Höhle!

In fact, many hundreds of people spoke a great many different languages. The Cumean Canal slopes down from the surface, nearly a mile above, made of dozens of gates and pools, surely more impressive than any other recorded engineering project. Though a seemingly perfect place for a commercial center, non exists besides the most basic of provisions shop which disappointed me quite greatly as I was hoping to buy some authentic German sausage. I tire of trout, and bats.

Some ships operated black markets and taverns, and generally one could always expect to bump into someone playing the Great Game... poorly if you did bump into them. I enjoyed the company of a number of Austrian radicals looking to investigate the governments of Neath on one of the ships, _The Empress' Own Tug_ , when a particular man came to my attention across the galley. He did not seem inebriated, though he slurred his words like a proper drunkard. Apparently, he took offense at some jab toward his less than Herculean height by a Cigar-smoking Gambler, and offered to shoot him in the eye if he refused to fold his cards. The Gambler conceded, the man won a few echoes, and exited the boat. I heard shots ring out from the dock, no doubt the short man, and investigated. In his frustration, he kept shooting at a buoy off the in the distance, and kept hitting his target as I could hear the bullet ricochets echoing from the waters. At this point I also noticed that the pistol was of the Royal Military's arsenal.

I struck up conversation, "You're a good shot with that thing."

"Love, I've trained the best shots in her majesty's army with both revolvers and cannons, there isn't nothing I can't hit from a reasonable distance."

"Artillery eh? You're good with larger caliber guns, maybe deck guns?"

"Madame you jest! My main experience might be on land, but if it uses powder to fire a projectile from a shell, I can hit anything with it, mark my words!"

"I get the impression you happen to be between work, mind signing onto my ship in the meantime?"

He considered it carefully, "Not quite my level of expertise, but easy work's better than none. I'll do it, so long as I'm appropriately compensated."

We shook on it like civilized folk and he returned with me to the ship. There I gave him the simple task of feeling out the Leadbeater and firing off a few good shots at a target of his choice as we pulled out of the dock. Five times he fired and five times it hit in the exact same place despite the movement of the ship and the bobbing of the waves. The last time it went off mark ever so slightly and an especially sardonic zailor made snide quip about the man not seeing over the railing, which set the man off on a tirade. The Compensating Artilleryman, as I chose to call him, berated the zailor for the indignities he suffers at the hand of such unrepentant scoundrels, and that he as a proper veteran of no less than sixteen wars and military campaigns deserves no scorn from a lowbrow dockhand. I later asked about his storied career and he described each and every minor march he had been on, including the Crimean War, the Boshin War, and the Campaign of '68; a rather suspiciously broad repertoire for a man of supposedly thirty-nine. However, his skills speak for themselves, so I elect to maintain a constant suspicion about it and concern myself too much with the past.

For now though, my new Gunnery Officer is integrating quite nicely into the crew, and it's also quite good that he fits into the hallways very comfortably. (With this statement, I will also be locking away this journal for fear of the hell the Compensating Artilleryman would cause should he find this.) Now we're off to the Iron Republic, where the only rule of law is the abolishing of all laws.

Sounds like a grand old time.

* * *

31 February, 0 BC

God abandoned this sinful world for the hell we made on Earth, and we hide underground to seek refuge from his hateful gaze.

ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL AND ALL SHALL BE WELL

ALL MANNER OF THING SHALL BE WELL

* * *

21 October, 1875

I wish not to go back to the Iron Republic.

We are returning to London at the greatest possible speed and we will not be going out for at least a while. That damnable and completely literal hellhole has certainly broken my resolve to head into the farther shores of the Zee, if they are anything even remotely similar to this land of paradox and madness. I have no earthly idea when or how I acquired it, but we now possess around five consignments of darkdrop coffee, so I suppose we will profit from this venture. Unfortunately, we remain spiritually inferior thanks to the palpable insanity on display. For now, this ship will stick to safer shipping lanes until I can understand how the pinky finger on my left and right hands switched.

* * *

23 October, 1875

Per the request of the crew, we docked at Mutton Island to have drinks at the Cock and Magpie. The Compensating Artilleryman protested that we could practically spit at London and that docking would waste fuel; I personally believe that he still harbors some resentment for when we walked through the parade of giraffe men (or were they enormous gibbons?) in the Iron Republic. He did calm down when I gave him permission to hunt the auroral meglopses swimming in the harbor with the deck gun while the rest of the crew went ashore. The Relenting Bo'sun showed vehement hesitance on leaving the ship, claiming he needed to do an assessment of the ship's condition while no-one was aboard.

I heard a few travel writers describe Mutton Island as "quintessential British countryside in the Neath," silly yes, but I found it true. The people spoke with thick cockney accents and behaved so very politely to neighbor and stranger alike. The Cock and Magpie was the most quintessentially British of the whole village, songs would go up that I last recalled hearing on the surface in a pub my father frequented. Fortunately, a fresh batch of the classic rubbery lumps just arrived fresh from the kitchen and we all received one extra on the house. Lucky for me as these are rather expensive for pub food, especially when you plan to feed a shipful of hungry zailors with a taste for traditional cuisine. As the name suggested, they were rather chewy, I do not know if they simply overcook the meat or if they use the cartilage in the lumps, they might use a completely unknown flesh altogether, stranger things exist in the Neath. They do taste utterly delicious, despite their unappetizing title, every man gobbled their share in a minute and I barely succeeded in dissuading them from ordering seconds at my generous and unwilling expense. Well, except for one, however I fed him enough cider that four men had to carry him as he sang a garbled Drownie song all the way to his quarters, stopping in between verses to tell off a coquettish Lorn-fluke mistress. The Relenting Bosun assured me that this happened most times he stopped off a Mutton Island.

After lunch, I tried to walk off some of the weight by roaming the hills in the center of the island for exercise. The lights of London flushed with sickly yellow radiance, like the color of fool's gold in a mine, but the Zee glowed like dull jade trapped under obsidian; an eternally still sheet stirred only gently by the passing ships and Zee-beasts breaching the surface. The lack of wind in the Neath makes it a very pleasant temperature for long sleeved clothes, only in those infernally warm summers when the mushrooms begin spreading their spores.

That is to say, usual lack of wind in the Neath.

I cannot say with absolute certainty, but I trust my own skin and memory of the surface enough to say that felt something on the back of my neck that I did not experience in more than a decade. A breeze, faint like the brush of a feather, glided across my back and put my hairs on end. I turned myself toward the source of draft and saw a small cave meekly whistling in the hillside. The wind died down when I approached it, but I swear to Storm I heard it say _"it lies... and hungers..."_ before it stopped. Appropriately shaken, I made my way back to the village, before an even more curious sight captured my focus.

A torch light and crowd of dark figures marched on the side of the ridge on the north side of the Island, coming from the village. With my interest piqued at what these honest Englishmen could be doing with such a sinister-looking procession, I hurried to the ridge to shadow them. All of them had already scaled the road to the top by the time I got there, so I merely needed to climb the rocky slope. Now, I would pay an entire cargo hold worth of scintillack to know where a bunch of Lowlanders learned mountain climbing because whatever path they used, I could not find for the life of me! So after half an hour of struggling up the incline like a lame billygoat, I reached the top where I hid behind a larger stone.

The villagers stood in a semi-circle around a Feathered Priest, stripped naked except for the headdress, who lead the rites in screechy voice in front of a great bonfire. He flitted between English and some other languages that seemed ancient in tone, presenting in order: a cob of corn, a clay tablet, and a jug. I have no idea what he said when he held the corn, but the tablet and jug did contain some snippets of Demotic referring to the New Kingdom and inelegant Cuneiform. The primary words I understood included "the Drowned Man," "Well," and many utterances of "North" in various tongues. The solemn ceremony continued in frightful austere manner until they reached some endpoint, then they all gathered around one member of the congregation, picked them up, and threw them off the edge of the cliff into the inky blackness below, all in near total silence. The man never even uttered a whimper... And like that, they dispersed, walking down the cliffside road. By this time I departed with upmost stealth, I had no intention to overstay my welcome.

I strolled back to the hamlet, trying to behave like I did not just see some form of neo-pagan human sacrifice, tentatively skipping along and whistling a broken tune. I gave a smile and a gritted "how-do-you-do?" to the pleasant folks; I assume that they either had no idea of their neighbor's activities, or learned to suppress their secrets better than me. I gathered every one of my crewmen immediately and undocked with all haste. The zailors naturally protested, a Volatile Stoker demanded an answer right then or he would mutiny. I was unsure of the scale or extent of the Mutton Island citizens' participation in the rituals so it would be remiss of me to indict the whole County of conspiracy, but my trust in them evaporated. Still, to expose this scene of cultish madness without requisite evidence would either cause incredible terror and paranoia in the crew, or it would make a mockery of me. So I elucidated that we needed to arrive before evening (or whatever counts for nightfall in a place with no notion of day or night) so that they need not sleep more on the ship. They accepted this with discontent muttering, and returned to their duties regardless. When he found me alone, the Bo'sun reported that the ship was in top condition and that he found nothing out of the ordinary.

"By the way cap'n, didya see what the fuss was about on the hilltop?"

"Yes, up close."

"Goes t' show that ev'n the model folk got sum peculiarities about them," he whispered in a common apprehension between us. The look in his eye of unease and dread spoke volumes. He left whistling a broken tune with an awkward skip in his step.

From now on, we will be avoiding Mutton Island in the future, and any stops will be short and the crew must remain in the village; if that barbarism is what they do to their own kin, then I dismay at what they would do with me...

* * *

20 November, 1875

Again, please forgive me for my lack of writing, but the tedium forbids me from elaborating on my journeys. I should say quickly what became of my Iron Republic expedition. The money from selling the darkdrop coffee was enough to buy myself a quant and very agreeable flat on Hollow Street, though I exercised my silver tongue intensively to barter a good price for the cargo. For whatever reason, merchants seem wary of buying cargo that came from a city that results when you give a mental asylum jurisdiction over the laws of physics. Funny enough, the report I submitted to the Admiralty went over poorly after it caught fire and burned off the wig of the Director of the Survey Office. Thankfully, they at least paid me for my time with some Echoes and coal.

Ever since then, I changed my route from Venderblight to Gaider's Mourn, as wine sells a little better there and I do not go out of my way too much to get there. In spite of its reputation as a hive of scum and villainy, the nature of its precarious place and construction make it one of the most impressive architectural achievements I ever saw. It sits atop several stalagmites the size of small mountains, connected by a number of rickety bridges, cottages built into and on the sheer cliff-faces. The great heights of the town above the water meant that no path lead up to the shaky streets, rather, cranes like those used to lift cargo in Wolfstack would hoist ships all the way up to level of the port using hooks attached to various points on the ship. It perturbed me at first when the winches raised the Cannon up to the Mourn, the ropes creaking with stress the whole time as we twisted and bowed slightly thanks to the uneven pull of the cranes; a ship belongs in the water for God's sake! (However, thanks to our elevated position, I found a few scratches sustained during our voyage that needed patching once we reached the top.) I remained uneasy in the village, and I discovered I might suffer from a slight case of Acrophobia, and I spent most of the time gripping onto anything solid. After a while, I got used to the place, but I still manage to find trouble there, such as what happened earlier today.

The Relenting Bo'sun warned me to keep my head down when walking about the Mourn, the pirates would throw a man down to the rocks if someone so much as gestured in their general direction. I still wanted to snoop about and look for some delicious shreds of information that I could relay to the Admiralty, they would pay highly for any intelligence about the movements of pirates in the Corsair's Forest. The Arrant limpet earned the most traffic of all the pubs in the town, and I brought some of my men with me to act as camouflage while I worked. As the zailors boasted and sang, I laughed and whistled along with them, but I kept a keen ear and a quick pen to jot every minor detail to "drop the eaves" as they say. I must say, I will never trust one of these marine marauders with private affairs, half of London would know all about it within half an hour!

After some pleasant subterfuge I stepped outside to take in the air (the bar reeked of sweat and tobacco) and the view. The panorama stunned me with its magnificence; the mists that flowed around the stalactites of the Forest like lazy currents of water, the false stars twinkling above as if someone stuck diamonds in coal, the evanescent radiance of London and the Mountain of Light in the west and south like competing sunsets. When one stands on the edge of cliff, hundreds of feet above the Zee, peering into the constricting darkness and attempting to divine some meaning in the madness of this vicious and spectacular world... you lose yourself to it. You collapse with tears in your eyes, unable to find any idea in your mind as to why. A certain part of you inside your soul tries to break out, and your body can only express it through an overwhelming well of tears, not even those of sadness, but rather of awe. Such a sensation came over me, and once it passed, I remembered what the zailors said of Salt. I whispered an impromptu litany; I felt it appropriate.

Unfortunately, I may not be as stealthy as I thought, for seven rather discontented zailors followed me to this spot. If you remember from the very first entry in this journal, I'm quite experienced with knocking a few heads around, and I've faced tougher than some half-bit, drunken sea raiders. I kept myself backed up against the open rock and made sure that the pirates' backs faced the wide zee. One of them, an Inebriated Freebooter, came up to me and asked,

"You finks you is clevur do ya? Finks you can sneak 'round 'ere and muck wif us?"

I responded, "Heaven knows that anybody would look like Socrates when standing next to you!"

Quite befuddled, he just asked, "So-crates?"

His mate got annoyed and unsheathed a Mongolian style sabre and brought it down on top of me. Lucky for me, he probably swiped the weapon off an officer stationed on a Khanate ship in a raid, because he clearly knew nothing about swordsmanship. He telegraphed his strikes like he tried to send the bible through wire, so I dodged his strike, grabbed his hand, and jammed my elbow into his nose. He let go of the sword, but by now his friends already brought out their armaments.

Now that I held the sabre, I could keep them at bay with the greater reach, slashing at their wrists and parrying attacks. One succeeded in making it past my blade, and I responded by giving him a firm kick in the chest that sent him sprawling backwards into her comrade. As they landed on the boards, the rotting planks gave way and the two plummeted down to the black abyss of the Zee. The remaining five roared with the fury of Achilles himself and descended upon me with savage abandon, my defense began to shatter under the weight of their unceasing strikes. I was almost sure one would sufficiently stun me long enough for them to throw me to the bound sharks with along with their former friends. A knife sliced the back of my sword hand and I dropped my guard, and I saw the tip of a sharp object approaching my face with terrifying speed.

A shot knocked the dagger out of the grasp of the pirate, and everyone looked to the source of the bullet. Low and behold, the Compensating Artilleryman stood at the edge of the walkway with his revolver aimed at my assailants, a wisp of smoke wafting from the barrel, plus two more of my crew standing with him.

"You know the drill lads, leave the nice lady alone and you get to keep yourselves wholesome."

They elected to walk away, knowing they met their match from my shipmates. I ran over to the Artilleryman a shook his hand vigorously, telling him thank you at least twenty times in both English and German, and I may have said I would name my firstborn child after him. He said not to fret about it and that he simply enjoyed acting as the Perseus to my Andromeda, though he did accept my offer of a pay raise. We returned to the ship right away, clearly we outstayed our welcome a while ago, and after a roll call of the crew, the winches let us down to the Zee. However, the trip did bare some fruit, as I heard of a tantalizing opportunity with less than legal prospects. Apparently, some d_ed genius developed a way of trapping sunlight in a box through some weird combination of mirrors, allowing folks to bring down the heavenly radiance to the Neath without blowing a hole in the roof. I overheard a few scallywags laughing off the tales of smuggler bringing these boxes down to a place called the Isle of Cats, somewhere in the southern Zee. I think I ought to pay a visit to that island, I am an ailurophile after all...

The Artilleryman reported that I indeed promised to name my firstborn child after him. Pity, I always wanted a girl and his name simply sounds strange for a lady.

* * *

21 November, 1875

B_dy pirates! They deserve the stocks, every single one!

Those scoundrels in Gaider's Mourn ought to see the gallows, I hope that some Woodes Rogers type comes back to handle these recreants! But, I digress. Now, allow me to expound upon you my first story about pirates at Zee, so listen well.

As we left the foot of the stalactite, we only proceeded at half speed to keep from slamming into the other stalactites. We whiled away about a day and a night trying to extradite ourselves from the Corsair's Forest, all the while some lookouts suggested that they saw lights following us. I thought nothing of it at the time, I assumed that it might be a hallucination from the unease most people feel at Zee. As it happens I am a fool and committed a fool's error.

Once the Cannon departed from the Forest, we brought the engines to full speed, when suddenly a shell sailed over the ship and landed in water ahead of us. Everybody directed their attention to behind us, and we discovered that a vessel flying the jolly roger followed us all the way from the Mourn; no doubt those vagrants from the gang that attacked me from the pub. The Relenting Bo-sun sprang into action and rang the alarm, ordering around the zailors like a military commander (including the Artilleryman, who surprisingly followed without any protests whatsoever), and generally took the reins of command out of my hands. I wanted to intervene and order my crew like the Captain I supposedly was, but the Bo-sun so effectively ran the ship, I thought I would probably get in the way of him. He brought us to a halt and then engaged the reverse, sending us right into the pirates. Another shot flew right across our hull, skipping along the left side and leaving a nasty dent, but we kept charging backwards like a reversed bull. The Cannon crashed into pirate ship, rocking both, and we exchanged some small arms fire with b_ers. Got one right in the left eye socket, I am proud to say.

The Cannon sailed behind the ship, and the Bo-sun ordered all engines forward and the guns aimed on the aft of the enemy. The Compensating Artilleryman finally had his opportunity to display his skills, and he aimed that cannon with an almost artistic precision. The Leadbeater sang like a broken grandfather clock, and the round tunneled right into the backside of the pirates, eliminating their engines.

"Her Majesty's finest sends their regards!" he bellowed with a nationalistic zeal one would expect from the military.

Now dead in the water, we backed out of the their range of fire as they desperately tried to turn the bow around and acquire a firing solution on us, to no avail. The Artilleryman sent shell after shell into the aft, the last one apparently catching the munitions storage as the whole craft exploded into a mess of metal and wood, the impact sending most of us reeling. The driftwood coated the surface of the Zee like the Sargasso Sea, but we saw none of the crew, probably for the better. The crew gave a resounding "hurrah!" at the sight of the sinking cruiser, which quickly died out when I asked for a damage report and ordered everyone back to their stations.

We did not leave the encounter empty handed thankfully, a few crates bobbed on the surface, almost as if it wished for us to pick it up and so we did. Breaking the airtight seals on the boxes, we found some bales of parabola linen that the vagrants most likely stole from some unfortunate merchants. I heard of the qualities and stories of fabric woven from flax that grows on a river of nightmares, the unnaturally light weight of the material, its strangely florescent luster. It feels softer and smoother to the touch than normal linen, almost the quality of silk, but it primarily draws you in with the unique patterns inherent in the fibers; if you let your eyes wander while looking at it, specifically if you focus your vision on the distance, you start to see a strange jungle-like forest, wreathed in icy tendrils of hazy... something. The important part is that they sell for sixty echoes a bale in Wolfstack, so I will eat well that night.

Unfortunately, this whole affair put a damper on my interest in the sunlight trade the late corsairs spoke of, I prefer not to do business with people willing to kill me at the drop of a hat. Of course, I at least have a dashing Zee Story to tell the folks in the Blind Helmsman, so I think I can certainly call myself a true zailor now.

* * *

27 November, 1875

Standing on solid ground for more than a few hours feels a little strange after spending two months on deck.

Oh God... I just realized, I've been at this for two months now! It feels like eons since I bought that rust bucket!

Well, I suppose time flies when you sufficiently distract yourself with work, but I feel like a true zailor now, if only because I reek of saltwater and smoke. The folks on the docks and the Blind Helmsmen also treat me with a modicum more of respect; some of whom I speak with more often even call me 'Captain', imagine that! Recently, I spent my past two days in London speaking with everyone I could expect to know about sunlight trade: academics, scoundrels, and the odd veiled question directed at Admiralty staff. My best information came from a Benthic professor I remember as the Disquieting Intellectual, she worked in the department of Neath Colonization and Engineering and dealt with some of the more hair-raising aspects of life down in the dark.

While she expounded on her expedition to the Savior's Rocks and how some of crew fell prey to the webs of the sorrow spiders, I quickly shifted the conversation and broached the subject of devices used to capture and preserve light that she may be familiar with. One of her colleagues actually made the prototype for the mirrorcatch box, and eventually suffered the consequences for it. The Admiralty strictly regulates the use of mirrorcatch boxes by the public due to serious public health concerns regarding sunlight addiction to Neath-dwellers, as extended time spent in the darkness underground can acclimate one to the lack of light, and when exposed to direct sunlight they suffer delusions, nausea, lethargy, and in extreme cases, death. It can also result in extreme addiction even with less than three seconds of direct contact, as she described that her former fellow would often elope with sunlight they used for experiments for his own pleasure, and one day, he simply disappeared in a waft of smoke.

What a wonderful and enticing world we lived in.

Anyway, because of this the Ministry of Public Decency will have words with anybody they catch using the devices, so most simply take to the islands of the Neath where the rule of law lessens. I asked the Intellectual about where her Department acquires the boxes for research, however most of the ones in their possession were the ones initially built by her colleague and those lay under strict lock and key. In a strange twist of fate, a pirate ship captured a vessel carrying one of these boxes, and since then, homemade versions have been reverse engineered from the original. She professed innocence to anything more about the acquisition of this item of contraband, I suspect because she did not want the Constables interested in her knowledge of black market dealings if I was arrested. Thus, I turned to my less scrupulous contacts with the Cheery Man, who explained that while they controlled the sunlight trade in London, most of their boxes came east from the Salt Steppes. The Khanate, possibly in order to undermine the position of London, manufactures these boxes and sells them quite cheaply, both in Khan's Glory and Khan's Shadow. I did promise not to intrude on their market now that I had the information to do so, a promise I most certainly intend to keep. Contrary to the proverb, there is indeed honor among thieves, enforced at the end of knife. Now armed with the knowledge to penetrate this secretive market, I just need to make some friends on the Isle of Cats, and buy the boxes from the Khanate.

And this, children, is how I became a sunlight smuggler.

* * *

19 December, 1875

 _Oh, my name was Captain Kidd, as I sailed, as I sailed!_

 _Oh, my name was Captain Kidd, as I sailed!_

 _My name was Captain Kidd and God's laws I did forbid,_

 _And so wickedly I did as I sailed, as I sailed._

 _My name was Captain Kidd as I sailed._

I feel like my next narrative poem ought to focus on a pirate in the late 16th century, living the life of scurvy dog in the Caribbean. Swashbuckling adventure! High seas drama! Dysentery! It would sell like indulgences outside of a bordello, assuming I can have it published.

My stay in the Isle of Cats reminds me of historical records of the Republic of Nassau and seventeenth century Canton, all the bustling in the docks and alehouses lends credence to this place being the center of illegal activities in Neath. I specifically ordered the crew to keep less than ten echoes in the coin purses and keep their hands on them at all times, yet we still lost a total of twenty-seven echoes from theft (Twenty-seven echoes that are not coming out of my pocket, unless under threat of mutiny). The Compensating Artilleryman took offense to the whole island on principle and the Relenting Bo'sun did his best to keep the stout man's rage from boiling over. I promised him a short stay, just to take in the town, and secretly to find where one goes to sell sunlight for a good price. A very kind man with an impressively sparse ledger asked if I would like to bribe him in order to avoid my name going into said ledger, an offer which I very graciously accepted. Say what you will about corruption, I certainly appreciate its straightforwardness.

The pubs burst with life and color, folks of all different stripes gather round and enjoy the pleasures of ill-gotten gains and goods. Immaculate paintings of roses lined the walls, in fact, much of the Isle of Cats focused on a rose theme, I doubt I saw a single cat in my entire time here. It was quite curious why there were nuns walking through this den of scum and villainy posed some very strange questions I need answers for, and lips loosened by alcohol tell many secrets. I sat down with a some nice zailors and a nun, enjoying their company and feeding them more and more rounds of beer. Once they became appropriately inebriated, I steered our discussions from the fluctuations of the quantity of trade vessels traveling to the Carnelian Coast to a more poignant conversation about the nature of the Isle. Some man referred to as the King established this place as a laissez-faire haven for any kind of industry, though it was obvious that he intended it as a pirate's paradise. No one disputed the power of the King, and although most activities went unregulated by his lackeys, no man with an interest in living came to head with him when he expanded his enterprises, and his blessing or seal of approval was of top priority to anyone looking to grow in the Isle. Notably, the King's greatest source of income came from the most illegal business of all, red honey. While prisoner's honey comes from bees that consume the nectar of the exile's rose and then are set upon prisoners, red honey is much the same process, but it uses a specialized strain of the rose. Moreover, the unwilling subjects that suffered the fate of their memories being harvested are of a more specific sort. Supposedly, this yields much more powerful honey with a deep crimson hue (as one would expect with something named red honey, but you can never know in the Neath) that London so deeply objects to, it is not even illegal in the common sense. The nuns in the Crimson Abbey tend to the hives and the roses, while agents known as the Cat's Claw search for good subjects to harvest memories from, and then distribute.

However, not everyone partook in such reveling, one woman in the corner of room sipped her ale with a distant concern, like she functioned on automatic, not even aware of herself. I sat next to her and it took five minutes before she noticed me, staring blankly at face and muttering to herself. I asked her why she looked as if she saw a ghost, gently coaxing information out of her.

"The gardens, oh God, the garden..."

"The gardens in the Abbey? You've seen it?"

"Seen it?! I left them there! For what? Money? The King's interest? How could I have done that to them. The way they screamed, it rings like the bells of judgment..."

"Left who?"

"My crew... I... they said it would be simple... I needed the echoes and they were dishonest and mutinous and... and... You understand don't you?"

"Um, eh, yes."

"No, you can't, not unless you saw the bees crawling all over them, in their eyes and noses. Salt save them, and me."

I was thoroughly shaken by this unfortunate soul, and decided to wrap up my business here as quick as I could. Wandering the island, I found several places that advertised sunlight sipping in the establishment, and every one I spoke to confirmed that they always need more sunlight to keep up with demand. Pleased with my reconnaissance of the island, I returned to the Cannon and made headcount. Thankfully, everyone returned safe and sound, and we departed soon after. My mind keeps drifting back to thoughts of the poor captain and her crew, their shrieks echoing in my head as if I heard them myself at the Abbey. I considered how dearly I held on to my own memories, the good and the bad, and how I could not bear to lose them just so that someone else could partake in them. The Bo'sun commented on how I looked deeply concerned about something, because the man knows me so very well. I fear for what I might dream tonight, and I have yet to go to bed despite it being the middle of the night.

* * *

23 December, 1875

I desperately want to know who saw a gigantic mushroom growing out of the zee and thought, "Yes, I would like to live on that and expand society there."

I ask because the residents of the Uttershroom gave no adequate answer to the origins of their colony. For context, the Uttershroom is an utterly massive fungus in the middle of the Myceligeae Zee that houses a small town on top of it. The Myceligeae tends to be difficult to navigate due to underwater mushroom caps scraping against the bottom of the ship, and large fungal spore fogs obscuring your view, sometimes even grabbing onto the hull and growing on the deck. The overgrown wreck of the Miko close to the Uttershroom reminds captains the dangers of zailing through the Zee, and I took caution and ran at half engine. In my spare time, I sometimes read some of the more extraordinary scientific papers published (Usually by the Benthics, the absolute madmen.) and one actually pertained to the fungal hamlet. The author claimed that all fungal life in the Neath derives from one source, that source being the Uttershroom, which he justified through the sheer enormity of the fungus and the similarities between it and the wide variety of other fungal life in the Neath. I later read in the paper that he shot a man who disagreed with him on the subject. Mushrooms are a very serious topic in the Neath.

Once arriving on the... I hesitate to call it shore, more like an excavated fungal grotto? Irrelevant, at the makeshift dock, we climbed the ladders to the shroom cap, and mingled with the residents. I would describe the folks there as docile, their schedules defined by years of routine. Few visitors come to the Uttershroom on account of not much of interest being in the area unless one is a mycologist. Come to think of it, I know a surprising amount of mycologists, so maybe people don't frequent often because it is dreadfully dull most of the time. The cap of the mushroom and its plentiful flesh provides food, shelter, and drinks while supporting a minor ecosystem. The locals speak of the Uttershroom in very strange terms, referring to it as "Mother" and describing their harvesting of fungal material as the cap "providing for them." I asked about how many of them leave home and every time they gave me a very queer look as if I asked them about their favorite tasting color, they seemed unaware of the possibility. Whatever their fungal-centric lifestyle entails, it makes them rather off-putting.

We stayed in the village for the most part as the fauna on the outskirts tends to be somewhat dangerous. Most notable of the creatures are Blemigans, purple semi-intelligent mushrooms with mischievous personalities. Zailors tell tales of the beasts stowing away in ships and propagating on nearby islands when the ships dock, though apparently, their skills as secretaries is immense. The locals do trade supplies for prisoner's honey, and sometimes they will simply give the trader a Blemigan with no extra charge, and most of these end up drowning in salt water because no one wants them. Most other animals on the Uttershroom are not as amicable as these violet stalks of annoyance, hence the populous stays close to the security of their squalid manors. Researchers do have some interest in the specimens from the wilderness of the cap, and captured creatures sell well with university staff.

Toward the end of my stay, the Uttershroom began to expel its spores, and the close proximity to the village made the air a thick mushroom stew. I could barely see a foot in front of me, and it almost felt taxing to move through the viscous fog. However, the locals did not mind the fungal smog, mostly lamenting that they couldn't see very well or that it was irritating to constantly call out for somebody without seeing them. They informed me that the Uttershroom ejects spores about every month, and it typically brings a series of respiratory problems for the people. Many people had an extra room in their house that had no windows and one door where they would bring children and the elderly to keep them from suffering too much due to the spores. When I suggested that it might be prudent to either place them on a ship until the sporing is over, they could not seem to comprehend leaving the Uttershroom. One said, and I quote, "Mother would never let us leave, even for a little while. She's afraid we might run off and not come back."

Because the air had gotten unbearable, I cut our visit short, and brought everyone back to the ship. A few hours later, I felt like the hearing in my left ear was off, and I asked the zailor with the most medical experience to take a look. He pulled a tiny blue-violet mushroom out of my ear, apparently it caught a hold in my inner ear and grew out of there.

For health concerns, we will not be returning to the Uttershroom for a long while.

I write this the next morning, I had terrible dream about a mushroom growing all over my body and in myself, until I transformed into a Blemigan. I will have to ask if that is their actual life-cycle, but I know for sure that the Uttershroom can go to the Iron Republic for all I care!

* * *

25 December, 1875

Merry Christmas!

I actually prepared for this occasion a brought a Christmas tree for this expedition. Unfortunately, because bringing live trees to the Neath costs an exorbitant amount of money, I improvised and banged together a green pine tree out of scrap metal which did the trick. The crew seemed to find it a cute gesture, but they appreciated the feast we had even more. Recently, I feel as though everybody has been on edge much more. The zee becomes far more treacherous and terrifying as you sail farther from London, many of the more far out islands tend to be less inhabited and full of strange creatures. Some of my friends in the Admiralty's Territorial Security Department occasionally let slip a few details about plans to colonize the outer islands of the Zee, but these are a bit far off and the Admiralty tends to have its hands full with internal struggles and the Khanate pushing the definition of "non-aggression" every day.

Strangest have been the absolutely gigantic crabs that roam the farther in the Zee, they confound me to no end. Most are about the size of the ship, if not larger, and the poke out of the water like huge boulders of red. Some of the older ones with barnacles and algae growing on them occasionally will seem like a small atoll revealed by low tide, and suddenly the pincers come out of the water and we go full speed in the other direction of the d_able things. They have given us a scare more than once, and they do not taste all that delectable.

The loneliness of the Zee has been getting to some zailors, but that is natural for everyone who goes to Zee for a long time. Even the older zailors feel zeesick, and the darkness around us can sometimes feel suffocating. Scholars in the University debate on the nature of reality in the Neath, and one of the more eccentric theories is that darkness here is not simply the absence of light, but a physical force that changes reality within it, elucidating why this cavern is so bizarre. Whatever the cause, we keep the light on while sailing, it comforts the zailors against the sheer blackness that grows as one travels the outlying waters. We should hopefully reach land within a week, my nerves have begun to wear thin.

* * *

Author's notes: Well I broke my previous promise pretty quickly, sorry about that. My workload became a bit overbearing in the past two weeks, but everything should definitely be fine now. On the other hand, we're finally done with the first chapter of Hera Rottenwald's story! What will happen to our heroine next chapter? Tune in next time to see...

One more thing. If any of you lovely readers are American and of voting age (really it's worth doing this even if you aren't in that demographic), I highly suggest that you research "net neutrality" and then call your federal representatives. Right now we're on the cusp of losing our basic rights relating to the internet and the only way we can stop it is if we take action. It's your choice, I'm just trying to spread the word.


	2. The Journal of Hera Rottenwald 1876

1 January, 1876

Happy New Year! But if affairs continue their present course, it might be my last.

Not much has happened in the past week, but terror has become slightly unbearable. Just a few nights ago, I awoke in the middle of the night and could not go back to sleep, so I walked around on deck for a little while. Obviously there's not much distinguishing day from night in the Neath, but we find it necessary to delineate our waking and sleeping hours. During the "night," however, when everyone lies in bed and the engines run bit more quietly, the firmament of the heavens underground does have a special quality to it. Were it not for the false stars twinkling above us, and the distant lights of an island or ship or horrific aquatic entity, we would sail in complete blackness. The prow lights only reach so far out in the Zee, and we constantly have to suddenly change course to avoid minor obstacles or monsters. Our past weeks have seen far more creatures and pirates heckling us, just another sign of how far away from the civilized waters we are. Even in these horrifically black shadows, I find something poetic about the pure bleakness present in the monochrome darkness being pierced by our tiny ship. Something akin to what Odysseus must have felt leading his crew into the underworld. (Modern literary scholars agree that Lake Avernus, the current path to the surface, was where Odysseus sailed to in order to find Hades, he probably came down to the Neath if that is true.)

As I walked back to my chambers, I heard soft weeping from crew's quarters. I investigated, and found a young man crying in his dreams. He whimpered into the side of his pillow, quietly muttering protests and calls for help. I knelt next to him to see if I could interpret his ramblings. I myself rarely remember my dreams, but his took on a life of its own, a vivid reality I could barely grasp through terrified mumblings of an unconscious mind. His voice lowered even more, and I leaned in closer to hear him. Then he was almost silent, and my ear was right next his mouth. I Struggled to hear anything above the cacophony of the engine, when I felt a sweaty and deathly cold grip on my left wrist. I looked down to see a white knuckled hand holding onto me tightly. I turned to the zailor to see him staring straight into my eyes with dilated pupils, struggling to distinguish me in the gloom.

"Please," he whispered, "The Fingerkings... The Fingerkings... they..." and he fainted, letting go of my arm.

My heart raced like a locomotive, and my breathing was ragged and short. I checked his pulse, and stayed by his side for a few more minutes. Whatever nightmare brought about such a reaction, it had passed, and he fell into a deep sleep. I returned to my cabin, and tried to read some comedies to get my mind off that weird encounter. I must have fallen asleep eventually, because I awoke the next morning in my chair with Lysistrata in my hands.

At breakfast, I was careful to observe the Terror-Plagued Shipmate, as I was embarrassed and frightened of the events of the previous night. He did seem distressed, but he kept mostly to himself, ignoring two more boisterous zailors attempting to involve him in a contest to eat the most hardtack without water. When I went over there to sort them out, I tried to call his attention to myself and see if he would react, but either he wishes not to talk about it as much as I do, or he probably thought it was apart of his nightmare. He seemed not to notice me too much, so after breakfast I sent him to work with the Relenting Bo'sun so he might keep an eye on the troubled young man. We should reach the Salt Steppes very soon, assuming that the Zee hasn't undergone Alteration all of a sudden, which is par for the course thus far. We need to find some human settlement and soon, or I fear that we all might end up like Terror-Plagued Shipmate.

One other bit of some importance: I mentioned earlier that I often forget my dream rather quickly. Well, I can still remember some key pictures from my dream the night of the incident. Chiefly, a jungle covered in icicles and brimming with an awfully queer shade of green. I have no idea if this might be related to the nature of the Shipmate's night terror, but I felt it somehow connected to it.

* * *

3 January, 1876

We arrived at Khan's Shadow today, docking on the western side of the port. Or, really, there isn't a true dock on the Shadow, it's all more of a massive series of ships, rafts, and driftwood tied together. For the most part, one just tethers their vessel to some other vessel, coming and going as one pleases without customs or inspection. When the Khanate landed beneath the Earth, they were the primary power in the Zee for the longest time and built an impressive city, the ruins of which are now the Forgotten Quarter. Then when London fell and crushed the old capital, the Khan's court and the survivors reestablished themselves on a colonized sandbar and built a new civilization not unlike Venice. Much of the old warrior class and numerous traditionalists loathed to see their once proud people conform to the ways of the "Southerners" (A derogatory term aimed at those who prefer a sedentary lifestyle, regardless of actual cardinal direction.) and set out to wander the Zee as nomads like their ancestors, minus the horses. However, they still needed at least one guaranteed port of call, and built a huge floating palace to act as a beacon to fellow rebel Khanigans. Since then, it expanded thanks to many decommissioned or wrecked ships being tied to the central structure, becoming a mass of different crafts all jammed together.

The first problem one encounters when wandering the Shadow is that even more than any other dock, one gets lost rather easily. It doesn't help that occasionally you find that the ship you just stood is not moored to anything else, and is just about to leave; nearly lost a crewmate thanks to a chelonate ship that left port right as she stepped on it. The whole city is a maze of random vessels strung together, so no proper map of the place exists, and you cannot navigate by landmarks except for the one palace in the very center. I did get a feeling for the place after a while, but only thanks to an inordinate amount of bumbling around without any sense of direction until tripped into the waste pile of a fishmonger. I resolved to be a bit more careful after that.

Of course, I did know where I was headed. The Traveler's Friend is the largest provisioning shop in the port and gives fantastic deals on supplies and fuel (Because they bought them from pirates who pirated them from merchant ships.) but also serves as a curiosity shop for various illegal items. Jewels, outlandish artifacts, and captivating treasures all liberated from their previous owners line the display cases, but I came for one thing and one thing only. This shop is one of the few in the entire Neath that one can find mirrorcatch boxes at a reasonable price, so I bought up about ten just for a trial of my new business. With that, step one of making an exorbitant amount of money was complete.

We returned to the ship, thankfully intact. The Compensating Artilleryman refused on principle to associate with the ruffians of Khan's Shadow as a Khanigan was a Khanigan no matter what flag they flew. Thus, he took immense pleasure in shooing off any scoundrels wishing to loot my ship, and he even kept count of how many people he shot. It required a great deal of coaxing to convince him not to attack every Khanate ship we passed on our way back toward London, and even now I have a zailor on duty to make sure that he doesn't suddenly point the Leadbeater at Khanate vessels. However, the important thing is that I now have the means to make my fortune, now we just need a quick stop in London.

* * *

4 January, 1876

So I would like to introduce yet another crewmate to the Apocryphal Canon, this one quite unintentional.

Just this morning, an Attentive Zailor was doing her rounds in the brig when she heard a commotion in the crates of salted cave herring. Initially she assumed it was the scout bat, broken out of its cage yet again, until she saw a humanoid figure crouching behind a barrel of lichen ale. She carefully backed away, and then ran to me for help, and I brought the Artilleryman for reinforcements. I led us into the brig, and once down there, I lit the lantern and illuminated the creature. Like a cockroach it scattered out of the direct light behind a beam. The Artilleryman almost fired off a shot into the hold, only halted when reminded him that we should avoid putting holes in the ship. I approached cautiously, whispering encouraging words to assuage its fear, moving slowly to convince them I was no threat. Then she peeked from behind the steel beam, and I got a good look at the interloper. She was of Khanigan origin without a doubt, but she only looked around fifteen, if that, with short knotted hair and a cat-like stance as if she was always on edge. I finally managed to coax her out after I threw a can of dried plums at the Artilleryman to keep him from shouting anymore expletives, and she ran into my arms crying and sobbing apologies in broken English.

Over a cup of tea in my cabin she explained how she got on my boat. Apparently, the Khanate has an urchin problem just like London, but the uniquely aquatic nature of their cities means that said urchins often stow away on ships to get around Khanate territories. Sometimes Londoners will joke that one of the Khanate's primary exports is orphaned children, but these are usually in quite poor taste. This urchin specifically, the Cosmopolitan Stowaway as I tend to remember her, actually made it a goal to travel the seas without ever paying a single person, and then document her travels to her friends with a few (read: inordinate) embellishments for drama's sake. She started at around the age of seven and since then she traveled to the Chelonate, Venderblight, Varchas, the Salt Lions, and even London. I happened to be the first to catch her thanks to the small size of the ship, and she did not know how to react so she simply tried to hide. I asked her why she would choose a ship of my size, to which she explained that her friends recently began to taunt her to go on more dangerous voyages, and she tried to impress them by going to the surface.

"I was really stupid, if I think about it," she lamented.

Initially, I wanted to leave her on the next inhabited island and be rid of the poor thing, but as we approached said island, she was aware of it before any other zailor and explained in detail which one it was before it even came above the horizon. True enough, she was correct and we arrived at Demeaux Island despite it having moved thanks to the recent alteration of the Zee. I quickly brought her to the bridge and had her navigate my previous course from London to the Isle of Cats to Khan's Shadow, and she frankly did a better job charting the course than I could. Her experience on ships forced her to become familiar with the layout of the Zee and she can generally predict where an island might appear after alterations. Beyond that, her experience at so many ports made her excellent as guide around the more esoteric lands in the Neath. Thus, against the protests from the Artilleryman who swore by the Empress that she was a spy, I decided to allow the Cosmopolitan Stowaway to join the crew as our navigator.

Although, if I am honest, I think I might have let her join because she reminded me too much of myself. A wandering storyteller trying to impress a horde of ungrateful and simplistic oafs? My life story! Besides, I think I could use a second opinion from myself every once in a while.

* * *

6 January, 1876

The Alterations of the Zee floor tend to not only muck about with traders, but the entire geopolitical stage of the Neath. Namely, Demeaux's Island, an important funging station for Iron & Misery happens to be a mere two days of travel by ship away from the heart of the Khanate. This caused massive issues among London and the Khan when they discovered this on the maps, the Bazaar still has vested interest in the island as a premier provider of all fungal products purchasable in London. I heard that a few saber-rattling parliamentarians tried to instigate war again, but nothing unusual. And thus Cato spoke "Carthago delenda est." Still, I made sure to raise the Union Jack high and proud to signal our arrival at the station.

That was of little consequence, however, as the Affable Factor of the station often greets people very kindly when he knows he has guests. The funging station receives precious few visitors each year who do not deal directly with business of the company, so he welcomed me with tea and dry scones. We took in the air on the verandah of his office, probably a bad choice as the fog of mushroom spores was almost as thick as it was on the Uttershroom, but we both bore it well and the views was nice in a bleak sort of way. We spoke of little of consequence, shipments that came in or out, the Khanate trying to embed spies in the operations (They never manage it due to their terribly obvious accents.), and the Admiralty also sending their own agents to investigate said Khanigan spies. He wanted to recommend me a lovely restaurant in Venderblight, I explained to him that I already went to said restaurant, which he seemed quite surprised about. He was, as the name suggests, quite affable, generally making very good hearted jokes at the expense of his own position.

"It's quite lonely out here, and most of my employees tend to be very lonely whenever we don't have a supply ship come in, or when we don't have visitors like yourself. You don't really realize just how lonesome it gets when you're stuck on an island for months at time, doing naught but cutting down bolegus day in and day out. Occasionally we," he made a clicking sound, "go completely mad, ha ha ha..." he chucked apprehensively.

"Well I am glad to give some company then, these spore fogs are utterly terrible."

"Heh, worse than you can even imagine," he pointed to a particular bulbous mass of fungus near the fence, "You see that 'shroom right there? That used to be a worker of mine by the name of Lawrence. Over time, he started to have caps growing out of his back and nose. Then the 'shrooms started to cover him completely and he stopped moving, eventually he just became a mass of fungus that you see now. He's one of our best producers!" he left an awkward silence, "I'm just joking with you, ha ha ha, but in seriousness, check and make sure that you don't have any mushrooms growing on you when you leave the island. We've lost good folks to spore season."

He escorted me back to the _Cannon_ and even ordered some of that day's harvest to be loaded onto the ship as a parting gift, and because there was enough of the stuff to give away for free. When we reached the ship, he suddenly saw the Relenting Bo'sun and his eyes lit up and he called to him. The Bo'sun was likewise excited when he saw the Factor, and the two rushed in each other's arms, quickly exchanging greetings. As it happens, they were good friends who met each other over the course of many travels, and somehow the Bo'sun always manages to sign onto a ship that stops off at this exact port. Each time he landed at Demeaux Island, he would have a nice chat with the Factor, though in recent years he rarely had the same opportunity. It was a lovely sight to see, but we needed to leave promptly before we started turning into fungus like poor Lawrence. We said our goodbyes, and left the dock. As we were pulling out, I thought I could see a few tears running down the face of the Affable Factor, but I could see little through the fungal fog.

* * *

January 16, 1876

I write this a few hours before I depart for the Cumean Canal to reach the surface. We arrived back in London on the 14th; the trip between Demeaux and London failed to excite in any way, but I actually appreciate that given how on edge we all became by the time we reached port waters. (I took a stroll close to Watchmaker's Hill yesterday and I nearly fainted when I saw a particularly large purple mushroom. I honestly need to keep clear of fungal islands for a few months or else I might just develop mycophobia; and I probably couldn't last a week down here if I did.) I gave my crewmen and officers a bonus in addition to their stipends so they could focus on relieving their stress.

Of course we did have the exciting experience of passing customs while smuggling both mirrorcatch boxes and a Khanate national. The combination of those two charges would likely result in my imprisonment for treason against the state, so we needed to get both in without the wonderful b_trds of the Constabulary finding out. We placed all the mirrorcatchs in a large waterproof crate, tied it to the anchor with a rope, and dropped anchor prematurely when we entered the harbor. The Cosmopolitan Stowaway found a good hiding spot in the brig and crawled into it. The customs officers searched every nook and cranny of the vessel and found nothing more dangerous than a sharpened piece of hardtack. After nightfall, we hoisted up the boxes and I let the Khanigan girl out of the ship. Strangely and luckily, the Artilleryman did not protest any of this, though I suspect it is because he believe in a more laissez-faire approach to trade and shipping.

I suggested that the Cosmopolitan Stowaway stay in my home as she said she was unfamiliar with London. I lead her around some of the more sparsely wandered areas as I wanted to avoid undue attention for associating with a Khanigan. We had a nice time exploring some of the older parts of the forgotten quarter and her wealth of knowledge about the societies of the Neath made her an excellent conversation partner (when I could understand her accent). I also continued looking into the fluctuations of the sunlight market and calculating profits from the endeavor. I'd say that, after accounting for supplies, salaries, and shipping costs, I could turn a hefty 1000 echoes from this single run. I hope my numbers are correct because I am putting my neck on the line for this and I want to be sure that I have good reason for doing so. After all, who ever regretted selling their morals for easy money?

* * *

January 26, 1876

I never realized how much I missed the sun until I saw it once more after twenty years. It was as if I been separated from my mother as a child, and after a lifetime of searching, I finally found her; as I see her, my eyes well up with tears of endless longing as each inch away feels like a mile, and when we embrace and absorb the warmth of each other, the bond that distance and time severed reconnects and we become the entirety of each other's worlds. The exuberant joy bubbling inside compels me to praise the sun, but I must begin with my ascent to the surface.

I must acknowledge the efforts of the talented folks who built the Suez Canal and the enormous impact on global trade it had, but frankly, it pales in comparison to the Cumean Canal. While most of the cave existed before Her Majesty commissioned the project, and archeological records suggest that it saw use as a route to the surface long before the Khanate fell, what engineers of London constructed here defies any definition besides miraculous. In order to bring ships to the surface the Canal utilizes a series of pools and pumps to raise and lower vessels to each lock. Vertically, it traverses one mile to the Lake Avernus, and horizontally... I honestly cannot say, but I am confused about the geography of where London fell because I doubt that we came directly down. Anyway, the Canal can accommodate about six ships of the _Canon's_ size going one way, and the whole trip takes about a day to complete and an immense amount fuel because of all the starting and stopping. Once you do make it to the final pool, you sail out onto Lake Avernus, and then take yet another Canal to the Mediterranean.

And then? Well then you bask in the glorious radiance of the sun and experience the wind upon your face. My God, the wind! The last natural wind I felt was back on Mutton Island, and I shudder to think what might cause such phenomena. Here, I know exactly what causes the gales and gusts of the surface world, I could smell the salt and dust of the Sirocco winds blown into the sea from Tunisia, and I saw dozens of sailboats with full masts circling around in the harbors of Rione Terra. The vibrancy of natural colors on the surface, the true green shades of the tree leaves, the deep and complex blues of the sea, and warm whites of clouds blew me away when I gazed upon them. And the sun... the if you live on the surface, you might take its astonishing halo for granted, but when you go for most of your life without it, to catch the faintest glimpse of gold glory means the world. As the light of the _Apocryphal Canon_ banished the darkness of the Neath, so too does Sol banish the infinite dark of the night. Its vivacity gives life and inspires to great things the hearts of men, I wish to write a million poems exemplifying its brilliance.

Of course, as much as I do love the lord Helios, me and my crew face a great deal of risk for traversing the waters above the dark Zee. Being Neathers, we adjusted to life without sunlight, and thus our physiology differs slightly from that of those with constant exposure to sunlight. Notably the effects of excess chemical rays is accentuated on our bodies, we burn more easily, and we are more likely to suffer sunstroke. Admittedly, my previous (literally) glowing praise of the sun might be due to light hysteria caused by the effects of sunstroke combined with the general surprise I experienced. And then there is also the matter of what the Disquieting Intellectual explained to me about her previous colleague and the radical dangers sunlight can pose on Londoners. I myself feel quite different after standing in the sun for an hour, and as I rest in my cabin, I am a bit uncomfortable, so some truth must lie behind those warnings. The Relenting Bo-sun, the most veteran of all of us was well aware of this and has been hard at work making sure that nobody stands in the light too long. So long as we are on the surface, we will function above deck in strict shifts and we will only travel at night so as to avoid unnecessary exposure to light.

It saddens me greatly that my weak flesh would keep me from basking in that warmth forever, but my health does come first. About half the crew share my frustration in this, while the other half cower in the lower decks for fear of the sun touching them. The Artilleryman seems to bear the glow relatively well, which makes sense given his supposed extensive career aboveground, so his body might still whether the rays with some resistance. The Cosmopolitan Stowaway, on the other hand, being the descendent of peoples living in the Neath for centuries is absolutely ecstatic to see the world without a firmament of stone. I need to assign a guard to her to keep her from basking on the deck all day, and unfortunately she cannot navigate as well on water that aren't the Zee, so I mostly relegate her to simple chores.

I still find it a little hard to take in the enormous difference between the world above and below, and I wish I could explore this fantastic sea as well. However, I have a job to do here. Actually, what was my purpose coming here? I suddenly can't remember.

THE BOXES...

* * *

January 27, 1876

Even at night, the surface is such a beautiful place. The moon and stars naturally lend the night time a unique character with their gentle lights. Beyond that, there is something else that differentiates the common darkness of the Neath versus the night on the surface. The lack of color, or the very simplistic and dreadful colors down in the ground result from lack of light and therefore lack of need for diverse color. With the brightness of lands here in Italy, color abounds in dozens of hues during the daytime, but those colors remain at night and their unique pastels will continue to paint the landscape while the night reigns. No matter what, the surface is still awash in color even when there is little to illuminate it.

Speaking of illumination, I did capture sunlight in all the boxes, I actually tried to take apart one of to study its parts, but these things are built sturdy. Now we have everything we came here for, but I decided to allow my crew some leave in the port of Naples before we begin our journey to the Isle of Cats. The Cumean Canal clearly brought a great deal of attention to the city and turned it into an even more important center of commerce than it already was. You can see the effects of sustained trade with the Neath everywhere you went. Hawkers selling cheap gems and minerals from the Carnelian Coast, restaurants and pubs open until the wee hours of the dawn for zailors, and the people's deep love of darkdrop coffee. Mediterranean trade made this city an economic power in the Medieval Period, and Zee trade revitalized that power in modern years.

I spent much of the night wandering the city, taking in the gorgeous architecture and culture of the place. At one point I sat down at a cafe and found myself in the company of some Austro-Hungarian and Prussian radicals with whom I had a lovely, if inflammatory conversation. (Strangely, not a one of them spoke any kind of German, the Austro-Hungarians came from the latter half of the country, and the Prussians were Danzig natives fighting for an independent Poland.) I bid them goodbye and good luck with their rabble-rousing, but they became very dour and suggested that if the spirit of revolution ever came to me, that I should meet them in Vienna as an ambassador of the Neath. After that I left in a hurry and made sure that no police followed me. Then I wandered the dockyards for a good price on coke and supplies and had a delicious Neopolitan dish called pizza, a kind of flatbread topped with tomato sauce, cheese, and basil baked in an oven and sliced into triangular pieces. Quality supplies were easy to procure, especially foodstuffs, we loaded the crates onto the ship just this morning and one of the zailors fainted after she caught but a whiff of the bread. Coke and coal came at prices a tad bit higher than those of London (having a friend in the devils can help you obtain flammable items) but not as much as the exorbitant prices of many outlying ports in the Zee.

Now we are prepared for the next phase of our capital venture to bring sunlight to the underground, and we leave port tomorrow. Until next time, arrivederci!

* * *

January 30, 1876

It is with a heavy heart that I write that one of my zailors unfortunately perished this day. He was a good, hard-working man who diligently attended to his duty and earned his salary with the effort expected of him. There are many dangers to human health, yet the one thing that initially gave us life on this Earth turned out to be his doom. The allure of the sun to those who live their life underground is more than some can handle, and despite my best attempts, he could not bear to be away from the shining sun longer than it took to acclimate to the darkness. While we traveled down the Cumean Canal, he was alternatively anxious, depressed, and frantic, praising the sun one second and weeping bitterly the next. For his own safety, I had him tied with ropes in the brig, gave him some laudanum, and set a watchman over him. About an hour later, we heard a commotion coming from beneath the deck, all available hands rushed to the decks below. We found that the ropes had been torn apart and the zailor I placed as a guard had been overwhelmed. I then heard a nefarious and manic laughter from another part of the under deck, and hurried to our main storage area. When we reached it, it was too late. We found naught of the zailor but his clothes and an opened mirrorcatch box.

The poor fool, unable to let go of the sun, drowned himself in pure sunlight and disappeared as if he'd been raptured, leaving his earthly possessions behind.

We held a funeral for him just a few minutes ago, and unfortunately we have no idea if he had any family we need to inform. One of his crewmates was quite fond of him and took it upon herself to give him a proper grave when we come back to London, which I offered to pay for. I always knew that this could be treacherous, yet I never realized just how much danger was involved with the sunlight trade until now. At this very moment, I feel like dumping all of those God-forsaken mirrorcatch boxes off the side of the boat before they cause more trouble, but then so much money and time would be wasted. I will deliver the rest of the boxes to the Isle of Cats, and then, hopefully, I can leave this madness behind me and go back to something more honest...

Bl_dy da_it all!

* * *

February 10, 1876

As if this d_ed voyage were not frustrating enough, we have been at Zee for ten days without sight or smell of land. I am afeared that while we stayed on the surface, there might have been an Alteration in the Zee's design and in that case we might just sail into absolute nothing for days on end. When I presented this issue to the Stowaway, she agreed and charted a new course southeastward, toward the Southern Shelf. Hopefully we will find a port where there might be some information on recent events, or otherwise just calm our nerves.

Terror has proliferated the ranks of the zailors since the death of the Sunbasking Zeeman; many fear going above deck, they avoid light when possible, and generally shaking like a cheap engine through the night. Few days pass without someone losing their minds a tiny bit, and my nerves too have been frayed since that day. Not helping this has been the many miles we crossed in the total darkness, zailors generally prefer to stick to any coast we find just as precaution. Luckily, not many creatures decided to interfere with our travel so far, and we stand just two days of travel away from the Southern Shelf, so we will hopefully reach the Carnelian Coast soon.

* * *

February 13, 1876

My hat is off to the Cosmopolitan Stowaway, she can chart a course unlike anyone else I know and her instinctive knowledge of maps can dwarf any other cartographer I can think of. With no days of error, she correctly predicted where we would arrive on the coast of the South, a mere day away from Adam's Way. Now we sit in the harbor of Apis Meet, secure and much less afraid of every shaking bolt and panel on the ship. Of course, entering Apis Meet was difficult by itself because of the strictures placed on outsiders by the Presbyterate. They maintain a firm quarantine on the information flowing in and out of the port, and to gain admittance one must bring one of three stories to the customs authority. I luckily kept my most recent copy of the Magazine Formerly Known as the London Magazine which the Gracious graciously (I refuse to apologize) accepted. Certainly they want to know what goes on in London as a matter of strategic significance.

Once we actually entered the section of the port allowed for visitors, we had a full day (as determined by the Gracious) to roam about the area. This day, a Sober Showman had erected the tents of his traveling exhibition in the fairgrounds and offered entry to visitors for a single echo. Feeling that this might cheer up the crew a bit, I paid for each to spend the day at the exhibition and immerse themselves in the culture of the Elder Continent. Most went, but the Artilleryman and a very austere zailor simply refused to enter. I spent a good portion of the time there exploring the many exhibits available to the public, and I will say that they outperform some of the sorry displays many London exhibitioners tend to put on. I particularly enjoyed the demonstration of traditional Presbyterate dancing, especially one where the movement clearly drew on inspirations from the tigers of the Continent. I even drew a mock of the steps so that I could practice for the next ballroom event I attend, that should give the ladies a fright and the men a flutter! Other than that, they held a fascinating display of Elder Continent artifacts and other curiosities from around the Neath. Some of the unique botanical exhibitions particularly interested me, as the flowers of the Elder Continent grow in strange manners as a result of the soil here.

Speaking of which, the method by which the Presbyters measured the time of day is tied to a tree planted in the center of the town that quickly grows and dies over the course of about twelve hours. Past expeditions into the Presybyterate lands have suggested that the soil itself carries immense energy and vitality that transfers into the flora and then the people. For what reason this is, I cannot say, though I suspect that it derives from the bloody estuary of Adam's Way that corrodes the hulls of ships nearby. Whatever the matter, it is quite incredible to see such a massive tree grow and wither in mere hours, and catching the seeds that fall off it is considered a great luck and honor. I had no such luck today, but to merely watch is still calming in an existential way. Once our day of admission ended, we and the rest of the visitors were shuffled out of the port and into the loading area of the docks. I inquired as to why they mandated as such and the Gracious simply said, "For the safety of foreigners."

With that foreboding message, I ordered all hands back aboard and prepared for departure. While in the docks with a few other captains I learned that indeed an Alteration took place a week before, and the Isle of Cats now lay directly north of Adam's Way. Supposedly it only takes five days of travel to reach it from this port, but I know better than to put all my stock in the rumored speculations of zee-farers. Anyhow, we leave in barely a minute, and I must man my station for undocking.

* * *

February 18, 1876

A strange way that life in the Neath differs from the surface: maps are rarely consistent or accurate, and as time goes on they become even less reliable. Even the maps of London undersell just how much of a maze the city became following the fall, but the Zee is a cartographer's nightmare. With the exception of ports on the Western Shelf and the Southern Continent, the islands in the Zee move around in a queer way, suddenly and without much warning, one might arrive at dock in the morning, and in the evening they set sail for home only to find that they were miles away from their original position. A terrifying amount of ships were lost as a result of such unexpected movements because they set sail for their next destination, only to sail into nothingness and then starve or go mad.

Resulting from this, cartographers devised a unique method to allow for navigators to follow accurate charts even when they change. See, the islands themselves do not actually change size or geography, and generally face in the same direction each time, so there is no need for the cartographers to change that particular aspect of the map. The same applies to the western and southern shores of the Zee and a few islands close to them, so again, no need to change that. Thus, companies in mapmaking sell a blank canvas that accurately covers the Western Shelf and Southern Continent, and proportionally correct copies of the many islands of the Zee so that one can glue the islands to where it is at the moment. It's a surprisingly entertaining system, like you are going on scavenger hunt except you're hunting landmasses.

I only mention this because the Isle of Cats moved out of its previous position and now lies directly north of Adam's Way, so we needed to move our Isle of Cats piece to update our map, and the rest of the island pieces when we find them. As for the island itself, not much changed outside of location. The same corruption and state-mandated criminality still persists on the island to its profit, the Pirate-King ensuring that nothing stops the success of illegal institutions. For this, must thank him to some extent because it gave me the opportunity to become disgustingly rich off the sunlight trade. I will not divulge the full extent of my involvement, nor can I explain the specifics of exactly how I traded my goods, but I shall give you a glimpse of the nature of how one of these dealings.

Firstly, location matters immensely, Sunlight Sipping connoisseurs want to appreciate the full radiance of the light and demand a place that is darker than the blackest corner of the Neath. Usually this means bringing the mirrorcatch to a dingy basement on some forgotten warehouse at the edge of the settled parts of the island, leaving it there and exiting the building, waiting nearby for about an hour, and then returning to find the money they left. One unfortunate fellow did not take the sun as well as he probably thought, and I only found his clothes in the vague shape of where he sat. I felt deeply unnerved having to rifle through his pockets, and unfortunately he happened to be the best paying customer. Other times, someone preferred to bask in private and organized several intermediaries to deliver the package, but they were sometimes so rude as to not even give back the box the b_rds.

Regardless, I can say that I am absolutely, fabulously, stupidly rich. After working through the cost of travel supplies and fuel, paying the crew, ship upkeep, and replacing the boxes I am well above two thousand echoes richer! I never expected to find anything this profitable unless I was hauling hundreds of consignments of parabola linen or drownie pearls in freighter ship the size of a town block. However, this has been by far more worthwhile than any other trade route that I shipped on, and I believe that the Ministry of Decency has yet to really catch on to all of the shenanigans my ilk are up to. So, if I keep this up without drawing the ire of anyone, I believe I could make a racket out of this whole thing, and the nature of Zee-trading makes it fantastically easy to lie on my taxes about where I earn my pounds.

So far, nobody's objected too much to this business, the few that did raise their concerns I quickly reminded of exactly what their salary bonus entails for keeping their mouths shut about things. As with most things in life, the lone dissenter was the Artilleryman, who brought up a great stink about how "unethical" and "against the Empress's wishes for the glory of the nation" it all was, but I refused to let him put me down in my moment of triumph. Besides, rest of the crew was well pleased with the whole affair, so he can't incite any mutiny against me if he has those urges.

We prepare to chart our course to Khan's Shadow to restock on mirrorcatch boxes, and I have sent the zee-bat out to scout for any sight or smell of land. We cannot be sure of what lies in Zee now that we know there was an Alteration, but we do have the funds to deal with just about anything if need be. So, from the bottom of my heart, I would like to give my thanks to Adam Smith and the free market for all their hard work in making the modern world, and the underground one a better place to be.

* * *

February 21, 1876

Given my line of work, this confession may seem obvious, stupid, or ironic (possibly all together), but the idea of death by drowning terrifies me.

I simply shudder when I think about the last bit of air escaping my lungs, the sharp pain in my chest as I swallow salt water in a desperate attempt to gain a single breath. Then, as the feeling escapes from my body and the mind begins to fade, the last thing I feel is the infinite weight of the Zee all around me before darkness overtakes me. I have unwittingly entertained this thought many times before, and each time I was profoundly distressed for the rest of the day. Everybody fears death, but we all fear a certain end more than any other.

Today, we had a brush with exactly that kind of death: the Drownies came to sing their hymns of the doomed. Not many people know where the Drownies come from and nobody knows how they come about, the wet b_gers are so mysterious and enigmatic that they refuse to give even a single bit of information that isn't an incomprehensible riddle. They take on the appearance of drowned people, usually zailors, as would logically follow given the name. I say that they "take on the appearance of people" because some doubt that they are the same person as one that died, and something else is merely puppeting their bodies for some eldritch reason; companions and spouses that have met the Drownie versions of their former acquaintances often share this sentiment. Like I said though, they are incomprehensible and inscrutable, so the rule of thumb with most Drownies is to be cautious and avoid them if possible.

On this occasion, they decided to be proactive, and while I was speaking with the Bo-sun on the bridge, a zailor cried out that they saw a man overboard. When we went out to check what this commotion was, there was a pale and bloated body floating in the water, but by no means was it man anymore. Out of the dark depths, more pale faces of glazed eyes and flowing hair appeared in the water all around the ship, gazing at our vessel with mysterious intent. Even while the engines rumbled beneath deck, there was an overwhelming silence as both parties gawked at the other, studying each other's moves and faces. Then they sang.

Like a banshee's wail, a Drownie song strikes at deep chord in the heart that evokes powerful emotions of despair, longing, and fear. However, the sweet melancholy in their voice and the beauty of the verse makes their tunes nigh irresistible for all but the most jaded ears, like the siren's praises. They all revolve around the central theme of the un-life bellow the waves, the world of the Zee-beds, and their songs paint that image with such clarity that one could hardly keep themselves from tasting the salt water and feeling the loose sands of the cold depths. They use these wicked tunes to lure zailors to their deaths so that they may swell their ranks. But I am not one to go down so easily, so I devised a counter-strategy.

I told the zailors manning the furnaces to load them up with as much coke as they can take, and set engines to full power. If we did not outrun the soaked nightmares then we would certainly overpower their enchanting tones. The rest of the crew I ordered back to their work and informed them that if they so much as glanced over the railings, I would dock them a day's salary. We thundered away from the Drownies with great furor, all hands working through the noise of engines and muffled songs. This continued for about an hour until I thought that the songs had completely subsided, then I ordered the engines to be set to half speed. Thankfully, the floating dead were gone by this time, but we wasted an entire day's worth of fuel and did a great deal of damage to the hull from some sandbars that we couldn't avoid while speeding away.

From what I know, the Fathomking's Hold, the capital of the Drownies, sometimes lies in this area. I fear what would happen if we landed there, but at the same time it is quite dangerous to trudge on through the darkness for days on end. We can only hope that our next port is a friendlier one.

* * *

February 25, 1876

Did you know that a surprising number of our brave men and women in the postal service actively go mad in the line of duty? Neither did I until I discovered Nuncio was a place.

Of the many unofficial colonies that London created since its fall into the Neath, Nuncio is by far one of the strangest I have encountered. Nobody can say for sure when it was founded, or how it came to be the most popular retirement destination for mail workers, but it exists regardless. It practically demands your attention as the first thing you will see of the island is Rhodes' Colossus-esque statue of a mailman with a crown holding a rat like some great treasure. We already planned to dock at the next friendly port, but as soon as the Cosmopolitan Navigator laid eyes on the place she demanded we go ashore.

We did just that, and as it happens, Nuncio is a popular place for many zailors too. The Bo-sun gave us a guided tour of the island and introduced us to some of his acquaintances among the postal veterans. The Compensating Artilleryman somehow ran into an old comrade of his who served as a messenger during the Sepoy Mutiny, lending credence to at least one of his dozens of campaigns. The people themselves were quite friendly and eager to chat, sharing mad stories of the harrowing tasks they performed to get deliveries done on time to weird places. I will tell you that if I had known the kinds of Herculean feats these postmen completed to get my mail out, I would never have complained about the price of stamps for years on end.

Of course, I was dying to know more about how they got here, and the island, and who thought that dead rats could serve as legal tender. The answers were not very grand, most postmen came after they had tried to deliver fundamentally undeliverable packages, hearing that Nuncio was simply where you go after such an event. Nobody really knew how or when the island was first inhabited, though some old-timers said that Khanate messengers lived here during the time of the Fourth City. As for the rats: they're artificially scarce, it's easy to handle inflation or devaluing of currency, and they cannot be counterfeited. I also asked about the statue, and who that was supposed to depict, a Veteran Courier informed me, "Us. It's just a statue of who we are as a people, the same way we build statues of soldiers or crowds, just to be proud of the society we live in."

While I walked back to the docks to prepare for our leave, I noticed that the shoreline was absolutely littered with envelopes and boxes of all kinds, so I investigated. Most of the addresses and return addresses on them were illegible, some seemed too heavy to lift normally, and I swear one growled at me. One of the parcels I found seemed to be addressed to one 'Mr. Kennedy', with a large note on the front that stated, "accepting NO further RATS." To sate my curiosity, I opened it up, only to find it full of long dead rats.

It seems I solved the mystery of where the people of Nuncio mint their money.

* * *

March 5, 1876

The fun part about returning to Khan's Shadow is that you never dock in the same place twice. This time we coupled our ship to a Polythremian trireme, which was quite awkward because it complained vocally that we were too rough when we hitched the _Canon_ to it. Then again, the problem with Khan's Shadow is that it never stays the same, so you can never reliably get around the place without some insider knowledge. Thankfully we have the Cosmopolitan Navigator, whom you should remember is a native to Khan's Shadow, and in the same way she guides us through the altering Zee, she could guide us through the byzantine paths of the Shadow.

We arrived at the Traveler's Friend yet again, and this time the owner recognized me and politely inquired as to how well business proceeded. I gave him a coy smile, more than enough of an answer for him, and he offered me a minor discount on buying the boxes in bulk. It feels nice to know that the shady underbelly of the Neath's economy values my company.

On the way back to our ship, we noticed an interesting but not uncommon sight; a gathering of politically charged zailors, khanigans, and other assorted characters chanting slogans of liberation. Revolutionaries are nothing new in the grand scheme of things, and liberty is a noble cause to pursue, but these are of a different breed. Our surface-living brethren deal with anarchists desiring the deconstruction of draconian dictators, but as with most things, the Neath takes things a completely different level. I try to stay up to date with current news, especially the political discussions in the margins of the social pages as the sheer idiocy of some opinions amuses me. A few folks, often using months as pseudonyms, would argue for not just simple anarchist rebellion against law, but against all law. And I do mean ALL law. They do not say it openly, but I can certainly infer by the nature of the rhetoric that they intend to unshackle the masses from physical law itself. How they would go about doing, I cannot even begin to fathom, but I suppose that's why they are Revolutionaries, they push the boundaries of the normal.

These specific ones seemed more tame by comparison, mostly spouting common populist rhetoric. We paid little mind to them, but it is interesting to see this kind of discourse flourishing in the Khanate, especially given that I believe that the Shadow was founded by more conservative types intent on keeping the nomadic traditions alive. In London, these folks would see the Constables attack them before they uttered the second word of their anti-authoritarian tirade. The Cosmopolitan Navigator explained that this particular cell enjoys these public speeches and multiple members can be found preaching in Khan's Shadow at once, often to nobody. The Artilleryman continued to grumble that this further proved that the khanigans were up to no good.

Personally, I could care less so long as they keep their business out of mine.

* * *

March 13, 1876

Two Lions stand above the waters of Zee, facing North and South against the other, glaring into the stone eyes as if they would reveal something.

These are the Salt Lions, one of the last great remnants of the Second City and an eerie monument to come across in the wide Zee. Not so eerie that people would refuse to live on it, by no means, people live on stranger islands in the Neath. Specifically, the people living on the backs of the lions are the "Unmakers", miners and stonecutters that carve out the rock and send them away to London because people have no god_n respect for history.

We brought the _Canon_ to the foot of the northern Lion where the Unmakers built a ramshackle dock for their delivery ships. A crane stands on the Lion's right paw to drop the sphinxstone onto the freight ships, manned by a few burly workers responsible for loading the supplies. A Sycophantic Foreman greeted us there and tried to get into my good favors before he spoke a word. His handshake was grasping and too enthused, and his smile did little except show how badly scurvy had affected his teeth.

"Right excellent day it is we get to meet you, ma'am!" he said with a squeak in his voice, "Not so often we get to meet folks off ships other than the cargo ones, would you like some tea and scones? Probably have them somewhere around..."

I did accept his invitation (much to my detriment, the scones were terribly dry) and he chatted a mile a minute trying to find whatever topic I found most interesting and pursue that. Then he would begin to ask about my acquaintances and adventures, who I might know and if he might know them someday. This little loop continued for about an hour, during which it became painfully obvious that he wanted off this statue and would take whatever opportunity presented itself. The operators at some of these stations that the Admiralty sets up are often there as probation for some offense committed on the mainland, shipped to be out of sight and to drive them out of their minds. I can only assume he must have ruffled a mighty important set of feathers to be so desperate to leave this place. I did ask him what he thought about his position.

"The Admiralty calls us Station Four, but I am a humble man and frankly I would hesitate to call our little collection of tents and mining tools a proper station," he said in slightly choleric tone, "Our clientele mostly focuses with less notable types looking to make an impression with some unique art pieces. Then there's the Bazaar, but everyone deals with the Bazaar, I couldn't call us special, though they pay through the nose for plentiful and punctual shipments of stone... specifically the northern Lion's nose, we already chipped away its face." He laughed, I did not.

I allowed the Bo-sun to take over placating the man, the Bo-sun's more neutral temperament would be less likely to reveal his disdain. I hiked to the top of the Lion's head along the scaffolding laid out by the Unmakers; my experience in Gaider's Mourn has left me quite ambivalent to heights and dangerous walkways. A few good workers were hacking away at the stone scalp, digging into what would be brain matter for a living creature. Approaching the edge of the forehead, I gazed across toward the southern Lion, and it gazed back, its empty stone eyes looking past me into the wide North.

It is strange to say, but I felt a weird kinship with the creature. Forged in rock over a thousand years apart, the calm look of the beast against my inquisitive glare as I stood atop its partner, it was as if the Lion wished to call out to me. To say what, I cannot know, nor do I think it would be proper, but certainly a melancholy cry lost ages ago in a petrified mouth. When I returned to my senses and finished my pondering, I saw that my boots had somehow become wet despite not having been by the Zee for at least two hours. The Bo-sun explained to me that he had once been crew on a ship that hauled sphinxstone from the Lions to London, and that the stone was prone to "weeping" as most called it. Puddles of salty water would form around the blocks while in transit, and although he knew an intelligent type who said that it was merely Zee-water soaked up by the rocks, he said that the water tasted of tears.

We eventually said our farewells to the Foreman and his men, turned down his offer to ship sphinxstone, and his suggestion that we visit him on a weekly basis, and set sail for London. I believe I watched the whole time as the Lions became dark specs on the horizons before they disappeared into the blackness. Who built them? And what sorrow did they bury deep in those stone eyes?

* * *

March 24, 1876

Home, home again. Though I try to bring the creature comforts of London with me on the _Apocryphal Canon_ , it is a pale comparison to my actual study in the apartment. The bed on the ship is exactly too short for me to lay in comfortably, my feet just dangle off the other side if I try to lay my head on the edge, it's absolutely terrible. The one in my apartment, though old and creaky, at least fits me nicely which means the world to me if only for a few nights. Waking up to put my feet on a warm rug as opposed to cold steel is the best metaphor for home that I can imagine.

The trip back was not too eventful, we blasted a few Angler Crabs which gave us extra rations for the rest of the voyage, we almost fell into one of the Neath's many unexplained vortexes, and the Bo-sun became zee-sick for the first time I ever saw. Like I said, not much. While unloading our supplies and equipment, we were confronted by a rather frantic man asking about if we had been to the Salt Lions and if we had a delivery for him. He informed us that the Sycophantic Foreman had sent a messenger bat saying that a delivery would arrive in the week aboard an unspecified ship. I explained to him that we had not taken a delivery, but that he should avoid worrying himself with that issue because the delivery surely would not arrive. He then broke into tears as I walked away.

I took the Cosmopolitan Stowaway on another guided tour of London, this time we had a walk through the University, and I smuggled her in on a few lectures some of my professor friends were giving. She was deeply interested in the anthropology class I brought her to, as she too wonders where the many different cultures of the Neath originate from, though the fact that they were then ranked in terms of evolutionary sophistication tempered her opinion of the lecture. The Artilleryman actually was kind enough to take me to meet some of his veteran comrades, we had a nice time drinking in a pub and sharing stories. They gave me a few pointers on how to better my dueling skills, explained a bit of the Royal Navy's tactics, and confirmed a few more pieces of the Artilleryman's past (and that he is a notorious liar with a penchant for exaggeration, though they let me parse through the details).

More interestingly, I was visited by a Inquisitioning Policewoman who was interested in whether I had been aware of any recent crimes in my neighborhood. She claimed that there had been a rash of illegal substance trafficking in my part of town, but I was far wiser than that. I will try to recall the full story:

"Miss Rottenwald, I would like to ask you about a few matters relating to public security, any information is welcome."

"Naturally, ma'am, I would be glad to safeguard the people of London."

"Excellent," she said while folding her legs and opening her notebook, "Are you aware of any illicit substances either possessed or used by your neighbors, or anyone you know?"

"I cannot say much, I have not been home often in the past half year."

"Funny you should mention such. I wanted to ask about your new line of work, I know you are a poet of _minor note_ ," I could feel the emphasis on the 'minor', "and I did quite enjoy a few of your works. Why did you chose to invest your time and capital into becoming a Zee Captain?"

"Inspiration. The Zee is a wild and wonderful place and full of incredible things to write about."

"How noble... But I noticed that you have not put out any new material in these past few months. Strange, given your previously frequent works."

"Madam Constable, am I being questioned, or interrogated?"

"My apologies, but this does have much to do with your current employment."

"Truly?"

"I am sure that you are in contact with other Zee Captains, and you ought to know that smuggling is quite a common market among this company. So I would like to know if you know any smuggling going on."

"Ma'am, I do not associate with criminals knowingly, to suggest such is borderline slander."

"Again, my apologies. I can see that I have been less than cordial with you, and it is my mistake to fault your character without any evidence. I have everything that I came to know, thank you," she stood up to leave, as did I.

"Yes, that might be convenient."

As I opened the door, she stood still and looked me right in the eye, "One more thing, I would like to congratulate your business sense. You seem to be keeping your ship afloat despite how little you seem to be actually selling cargo."

"Are you thumbing through my ledgers without my permission?"

"No," she replied with a coy smile, "I read import manifests for fun. Have a nice day Miss Rottenwald, and god bless."

And like that the Policewoman left my abode with a clear warning, they know something is suspicious and want my head for it. Of course, I am no woman to be intimidated by pencil-pushers and toothless constables! My expedition to the surface will continue as planned, if only because it would now be more suspicious not to go. They will find me at the bottom of the Zee before they put me in irons, I swear you that!

* * *

April 2, 1876

After our last visit to the surface ended in tragedy, I established some new guidelines for the crew to follow while we are up there. First, the mirrorcatch boxes are under heavy lock and key; I am the only one allowed to handle them and if someone even looks in their direction they will see their rations cut. Second, no zailor is to be above deck from the hours of seven to eight unless absolutely necessary; though to avoid being totally draconian, they may see the sunrise and sunset. Third, interaction with anyone who clearly speaks English ought to be a minimum; the Great Game congregates around the ends of the Cumaean Canal and spies from London would love to know all the most sensational details about a Sunlight Smuggler and her crew, maybe blackmail me into their schemes (and frankly, I've played the Great Game before, it takes ages to get anything valuable out of that hullabaloo).

Speaking of the Great Game, while we stopped off at the staging area for the Canal, a few of the crew and myself had drinks on the cargo ship _Zee Mule_. Like many other unlicensed ship bars, this one also hosted a rudimentary gambling den, mostly card and dice games with poorly construed betting rates. Some gentlemen played hazard in a corner of the room far away from our own, but evidently the game became rather contentious for some reason, and I and most of the patrons took notice when a woman was stabbed in her chest by a malcontent after she attempted to defend herself against accusations of cheating. The rest of the fine folks nearby instantly tried to relieve her of her money before she came to, but I found that a rather strange napkin had fallen out of her pocket. Upon closer inspection I found it full of gibberish phrases, numbers, and symbols. This meant one of two things, either it was some form of physics or math in which case I could never understand its meaning, or it was a spy code of some form. No doubt someone would pay dearly for this information, but I need to find them first.

As for our ascent to the surface, we are currently waiting for the seventh lock to fill up. I am in awe at the incredible work the engineers of London have done to construct such a marvel. This may be my patriotism speaking, but the French and their Suez cannot hold a candle to the industry of the British! I eagerly await to see the surface again, even though I will be staying under deck with the rest of the crew for the most part. Just to have the Sun's light bathe my body for a few minutes is still an electrifying feeling and well worth the fuel to make it up there, I can hardly stand to wait any longer… However, I must steel myself. Everything in its due time, and I will taste and cherish the glory of light very soon.

* * *

I sit here in darkness, suffering.

Every infinite moment divorced from the light is suffering, the dark is cold and foreign, its chill bites my bones like a savage knife thrust into the marrow. Only the light can comfort; it welcomes, it embraces, it calls…

It calls my name. The Glory calls my name of the millions of names.

I call back, if it could hear me, it might come closer. If only, if only…

So I must come to it. It compels, draws me with nectar of brilliant orange and yellow that I may taste of what I see, bathe in a warm ambrosia to feel the radiance dancing on my skin. Dancing rays carried by ethereal songs of the Choir Invisible, praising beauty with beauty to extol the most virtuous body in all of Heaven's domain. The song mocks me, teases me with what I could have, what might await me there.

Yes… yessss… There where the Towers rise. Rise within the earth to pierce the ground and touch the corona of the sun. In mine own eyes these obelisks rise high, high above. Grab hold of them, one hand above the other, all the way to the pointed top. And then

 _Reach_

 _Touch_

 _Caress_

The light is never gone, it stirs in your eyelids to give company in the deep black of the night. Close your eyes and see it. Glowing, glowing, glowing… powerful

A Judgment is upon me, and us all. Glory be.

* * *

April 4, 1876

When did I write this? What does any of this mean? Why is my skin red and sore? What in God's name happened to me?

* * *

May 9, 1876

Should you be wondering why there exists a great break in my account of events, it derives from the shock of the previous entry in this journal. I believe I suffered from some temporary infirmity of my mind as a result of severe sunstroke, evidenced by the sunburn I enjoyed for the next few days (longer actually, I'm still peeling skin in the most unlikely places). The Relenting Bo-sun was kind enough to handle the duty of captain for a little while, until my physical and mental condition improved. The Compensating Artilleryman ensured that discipline would prevail in my absence, and the Cosmopolitan Navigator charted our course as per my directives. I cannot thank them enough for their faithful service in the face of my temporary weakness, and it honestly gives me a great deal of comfort knowing that my officers dedicate themselves so fervently when I need them to. Their service is invaluable, and the part they play of upmost importance.

Speaking of parts to play, just this day, we arrived at the Kapalka Cove on the island of Visage. From prior trips around these parts, I am familiar with the fact that the island tends to stay in the vicinity of the Isle of Cats after Alterations, though I had yet to visit it as matters of business presented greater importance at the time. However, both the Bo-sun and the Navigator, apparently previous day-trippers on Visage, suggested it to me as a therapeutic opportunity. I figured that I could easily spend a day without much consequence, so we docked.

After leaving the designated dock area, all new arrivals are herded into a specific house. In said house, a person wearing moth mask helps with each visitor to choose a mask that they would like; they flatly deny your entry if you suggest entering without a mask. Numerous uncanny face coverings are available for public use, all based around an animal theme. Eventually, I took a locust mask as something about the innate hunger in its design resonated with me. My appropriate arthropod associate then led me into the town proper.

I believe I neglected to mention earlier, but there is an enormous face carved into the eastern side of the island that looks directly upward towards the ceiling. This, "Flourishing-of-Years" as they called it, intrigued me greatly, and I resolved to make my visit one to research the queer history and customs of this culture. To this end I was directed to the Library of Parts, a building housing a great many collections of scrolls of all sorts. My initial efforts yielded little, for the most part I found uninformative scripts or ones in unfamiliar hieroglyphs. Perhaps I could, with enough time, learn my way around the library, but I felt annoyed and pressed for a quicker solution. I noticed that many other masked peoples carried with them similar parchments, and that certain masks appeared to be elites with greater access to the resources of the library. I, slyly, relieved them of their pocket items which contained few valuables, but gave me better clues to searching the scrolls. During this, I noticed the Moth watching my actions, yet they seemed very approving of this behavior for some strange reason (perhaps Non-Londoners are as morally corrupt as the Admiralty would have me believe). While my exploration into these documents became more effective, I began to approach the end of my stay, and made little headway into the subjects that interested me. I felt distinctly, almost coercively, compelled to "seize" materials for my study. So, I cut open some stitches on the leg of my pants, and snuck a few of the papers in there before sewing it up again. It was only when I finished the last stitch that I noticed the Moth staring intently at me. My heart leapt into my throat, fearing that I might see some punitive action for my transgression. But, yet again, they simply nodded with implicit approval. By this point, I was due to return to my ship, and the Moth brought me to the exit.

Before I took off my mask to leave the town, the Moth said something to me, "You played your part well, your performance will carry you far in Visage." When I ask what they meant by that, they gave me a blank, faceless stare.

Visage seems to pride itself on masquerades and mysteries, a place defined by the secrets everyone hides underneath. Surely, not all things may remain secret forever, but Visage seems to enjoy prolonging this inevitability regardless. I will, however, give my compliments to the Bo-sun and the Navigator for recommending this shore leave for me, I feel thoroughly relaxed for some odd reason. Perhaps the masks serve the purpose of anonymity therapy; that we may forget who we are and our stresses to better sooth the mind with an identity we need not worry about, for it will always be available whenever one visits again. I believe I might visit again.

* * *

May 11, 1876

It is supremely satisfying to be recognized for your success.

On the Isle of Cats, there is a consensus that I am the sunlight smuggling industry's most successful neophyte. Folks on the island know that I am the most reliable source for the sunbeams that the Neathers crave so much, as such, I am never short of willing customers. This trip alone brought in over fifteen thousand echoes of profit, enough that I should buy a new ship soon! As a more seasoned trader, of course, I know a few contacts by whom I organize deliveries and extract money from the clients, so even though my name may ring in the ears of sunlight sippers, few know the woman called by that name.

One who also knows my name is the Pirate-King of the Isle of Cats. Well, at the very least, the right hand of the Pirate-King knows me. The King's Claw is a venerable position of authority in this anarchic society, designated to maintain the order of the chaos on the island. They keep the minimum necessary peace between the criminals, arrange the more important transactions, and act as patron to the most promising talents. Here is where I enter the frame. While discussing with a third party the means by which a box of sunlight would be delivered, a messenger from the Claw produced summons asking me to meet with them right away. The walk was a short one as their office was above the Honeyed Tongue, where most transactions on the Isle took place. Upon entering, they beckoned me to sit, and the fellow (I hesitate to determine the person's gender, though it is insignificant anyway) gave me a long and rather sycophantic compliment on the success of my business. I asked them to skip the pleasantries and speak directly, to which they obliged, explaining the true intent of the meeting. Seeing my talent in moving between London, the surface, and the Isle of Cats as immensely valuable, they wished to have me render my services toward a particular end; to smuggle human cargo for the purposes of producing red honey. Though the King enjoys admiring sunlight, he finds that taking in light directly is too dangerous, but red honey can fully simulate the experience by means of memory. I was to kidnap a man and deliver him to the Isle that he may be drained of his past.

I respectfully declined. I admit, I am unscrupulous, but I am not cruel. I know the dangers of sunlight to Neathers, I experienced them myself not too long ago, but my customers know exactly the risk they accept when opening one of those boxes. To hold a man hostage and bring them to such a horrid fate goes beyond any personal interest or obligation I may hold, and I will not be party to it. I paraphrased as much to the King's Claw, who accepted it with visible dissatisfaction. I was allowed to leave, and for the rest of my time on the island I feared the possibility of a knife embedding itself in my back. As I am writing this journal, you can tell that I remain comfortably intact; for how long, I cannot say. As we pulled out of port a few hours ago, the Compensating Artilleryman approached me to voice his disdain. He asked what benefit was it to me to associate with the lowest scum on the Zee, and that he struggles to stomach my illegal actions despite me paying his salary. I do not yet question his loyalty, but I believe he gives me less credit than I deserve as I could be much worse. Then again, perhaps he already knows that, and merely warns against going further down this path.

* * *

May 15, 1876

Today we passed by Wisdom, the prison that sits on lily pads and enjoys the guardianship of frogs… this is a strange world we live in. While I question how plants can act as a foundation for those massive stone walls, it is undisputed that Wisdom is the most secure prison in the Neath; but, note that its competition is Newgate, which is in the sky (but is surprisingly permeable, which is not something I have firsthand experience with by any means, how dare you suggest that). Originally constructed by the Khanate, at some point it declared its independence but retained its role as a prison, though no-one knows why Khan accepted this so easily.

Approaching Wisdom is already very daunting; the enormous multi-eyed frogs (knot-oracles as they are called) may not be official guards so far as I know, though the Neath will always surprise you, but they certainly reduce the chances of escape across the lily pads. In the water, the fearsome bound sharks that have oft plagued my trade routes also prowl the Sea of Lilies, and if those d_ed things can tear apart an unprepared ship, you have no chance when going for swim. Then there are the huge walls of the prison itself, many feet thick and patrolled by guards at all times. And all this you can see from the outside, Salt only knows the measures taken within the prison itself as I have yet to hear of a successful escape attempt from Wisdom.

We docked for a brief minute at Nuppmidt Harbor, both to stretch our legs and top off our fuel supply. I made note of other vessels in the Harbor, mostly consisting of miscreant types known for disorderly crews: Chelonates, pirates, outremer zailors of the Khanate and London, even a few unfinished men from Polythreme. While every major power on the Zee has nautical laws governing their citizens' ships, not all prosecute these equally, or they may just be inconvenient to deliver prisoners to. Wisdom "welcomes" all without question, every man has a home in the cells deep within that fortress. It needs to, besides acting as a jail for some of the most difficult to contain escape artists of the Neath, the prison trades in specially acquired secrets. Those knot-oracles I mentioned? Those creatures hold vast amounts of knowledge, lord knows why, but they can only speak their wisdom if they are fed with a live person, otherwise they simply croak like any other frog. So, turn in a troublemaker you wanted out of your crew anyway, you receive a cut of the information gathered after your old crewmate is devoured. An unpleasant transaction, to say the least.

We did no such thing, within an hour of arrival, we left a mere forty echoes poorer after buying provisions. Zailing through the rest of the Sea of Lilies made uneasy, the knot-oracles have budding eyes all over their bodies that simply stare into the great beyond, but they always seem to be more keen when looking at me. The fact that they hardly move aside from breathing and their loud croaking breaking the silence of the Zee only emphasizes their unsettling behavior. Perhaps they unnerve me because I know that they know far more than they have any right to, possibly crucial facts about me, and their ribbits are secret judgments being passed on me. I despise people judging me behind my back and I'll be d_ed if an overgrown amphibian looks down on me.

* * *

May 28, 1876

Once again we arrive at Khan's Shadow, and once again we find that store in a different place. Usually when we come into port, the Cosmopolitan Stowaway calls on one of her friends to lead us to where they moved the Khanate supply barge that the Traveler's Friend sits on. By now they consider me a regular customer and welcome me like a good friend, but I can tell they commit to the pleasantries because I give them guaranteed business. What I appreciate is that someone wants to keep themselves on my good side and will perform the necessary sycophancy to maintain that relationship. Fundamentally, that is what you get when you boil down the concept of authority, an obligation to please the person in possession of authority.

Meanwhile, my Gunnery Officer seems to be warming up to the Khanigans here, and has been spouting fewer prejudiced epithets toward the locals than the first time we arrived. I suspect this is because he seems to have gotten a handle on the politics of the Khanate, and realized that he and the faction of Khan's Shadow stand on the same side against the royalists of the Salt Steppes. Though he denies it when I ask him about it, both I and the Bo'sun have seen him discussing local politics with zailors of Central Asian descent. Just an hour ago, he asked for a pen, ink, and some paper, and when I asked him what for, he told me he wanted to send a letter to his friend about, "strictly military matters."

On a related topic, today was my first interaction with native Chelonates, the natives of Zee's easternmost fringes. While on our way back to the ship, we saw a group of them loitering in an open market area trading stygian ivory for supplies. The way one can tell that they are in the company of a Chelonat(er/ian/ist?) is that you are overcome with a wretched stench of rotten meat, blood, and traces of the remains of a creature's dinner after all the nutritious parts were digested. This comes from the rich history and tradition of hunting among the people of the Chelonate; indeed if rumors are to be believed then their home is the remains of an enormous prey slaughtered by their ancestors. The hunters are drawn to the hunt and they wear the stench of death almost like a trophy that signifies their prowess at extinguishing the beasts of the Zee, Storm knows there are more than enough for them to pursue. Though my storage was too full for me to buy a shipment of ivory, I did enquire them where they acquire the goods.

"The Gant Pole, where beasts go to die."

"What a welcoming epitaph for a place, it sounds like a lovely spot for a picnic."

The Boisterous Trapper laughed, "I know sarcasm when I hear it, but you're actually not wrong! If you can cook the leviathans that lurk in those waters, ya really do have a good picnic on your hand!"

Much as enjoy fresh fish, I am in no mood for shark meat, at least until I find a good cook for the ship. We bid the reeking hunters adieu and returned to the _Canon_ , where I currently write this log. I have yet to tell the rest of the crew, but I we will not return to London directly. My inquiry toward trading stygian ivory was more than passing curiosity; the sunlight trade is fast becoming too lucrative for its own good. If I continue to be this successful, the Constables will no doubt eventually have the evidence they need to bring me to trial, and I won't allow that to pass. My current scheme is to look into other trade ventures that might turn a profit that could divert attention away from my frequent trips to the Surface. So, we will be heading to the Principals of Coral, and I have had the Stowaway and the Bo'sun chart our course as best as they can. The Bo'sun also invited me to chess tomorrow after some uncharacteristically vigorous insistence. Something tells we won't be so relenting on the chessboard than he is on duty.

* * *

June 5, 1876

We're going to need a bigger boat, or bigger guns.

Today started out quite uneventful. We zailed in the outreaches of the Salt Steppes, which, thanks to the presence of the Khanigan Navy, tends to be free of pirates or dangerous creatures. However, I ordered the flag to be lowered just in case, because although London and the Khanate remain at peace, both navies have been known to fire on each others' merchant vessels without provocation. Most ships in the region avoid flying their flags because of this.

To my misfortune, this seems to be just as much of a gamble as waving the Union Jack. Around midday, the Relenting Bo'sun and myself were playing our eighth game of chess that day (the score was seven-to-one in his favor I must regretfully say) when we received an alarm from the deck. A Khanate Trimaran, the most common Khanigan naval vessel, was approaching us at great speed, possibly to attack. We rushed above deck to see where it was coming from, and sure enough, to the northwest rose a plume of smoke from a ship bearing Khanate markings (the Cosmopolitan Stowaway informed me that its name was _The Wrath of the Khan_ ). The Compensating Artilleryman, who looked a combination of nervous and elated, suggested that we turn our guns and fire first before the enemy cannons lock onto us. I refused, as it would be even more dangerous to cause an international incident without provocation; plus, by that time it was close enough that I could see it had taken some damage from a monster, and I suspected the captain merely wished to return to home port to repair.

Whether or not my theory was correct, I had been wrong to assume it would leave us be, as a shot landed in the water just ahead of us. This made the Artilleryman go completely mad, and he screamed that such a shot was clearly intended to sink us, not a warning shot. The Bo'sun concurred, and said that by maritime law, we were well within our rights to retaliate. I deferred to their superior knowledge and experience, calling all hands to battle stations. While the Artilleryman prepped the Leadbeater to fire, I consulted with the Bo'sun and the Stowaway as to the best course of action. The Stowaway had briefly traveled the Salt Steppes on Khanate Trimaran and became familiar with its armor and armaments, and she explained that even with the damage it showed, we were in serious danger of being sunk by its main gun. The Bo-sun recommended that we drive directly to our west into a group of stalagmites. The Trimaran may be faster, tougher, and more powerful than us, but it was also bigger, and maneuverability could play to our advantage in the rock forest.

We turned the bow due west and set engines to full speed. This strategy was risky, as it would put the _Canon_ into a path the Khanigans could easily intercept, though this actually worked in our favor as it brought the enemy ship into the range of our gun. The Artilleryman performed his duty with exemplary skill, and a majority of his shots managed to connect with enemy, though not to great effect. The Trimaran, meanwhile, seemed to be firing either too far or too short, likely because the crew was not used to fighting such small ships, but at least three of their salvos did connect and caused some damage to the outer hull. Just a mile from the rock outcroppings, the Trimaran was coming awfully close and set itself on a path to ram us in the portside, a critical blow that would cripple the _Canon._ Without any option left, I ordered the engine to be overloaded so that we would boost out of it path. As the zailors threw more coal and coke into the boiler, our speed doubled, and I could see that we were speeding ahead of the collision course. We gritted our teeth as we heard the metal groan under the intense heat and pressure of the added fuel, and a zailor made spoke a prayer to Storm asking him to spare us his wrath. The Trimaran came close, and it just barely missed us, however its gun put a good hole in the aft as it passed by.

The engines held out all the way until we reached the stalagmite forest, and luckily a fog was swirling in and around it, hiding our ship. We carefully navigated through the stones and made a right turn around one of the larger outcroppings. Keeping it to our starboard side, we circled around it to find that the Trimaran with its wide hull had lodged itself in between two rocks and had its aft toward us. With our foe disabled in our trap, we opened fire into the ship's behind, blasting it over and over with the Leadbeater. Eventually, one of our shots must have penetrated the ammo storage or the engines, because a huge explosion erupted in the center of hull, splitting the ship in twain and dislodging it from the stalagmites.

As _The Wrath of the Khan_ sank, we noticed several life rafts floating away from the wreckage, how many survived I could not say. The Artilleryman was overjoyed, but surprisingly he refused to fire on the survivors out of honor and respect for a defeated foe, even though we all knew that they might live to tell the tale to the rest of the Khanate Navy and make us notorious among the White-and-Golds. We were not murderers, and no-one suggested that we should kill the Khanate zailors. We did loot whatever useful items drifted close to the ship; some extra ammo for our guns (so now that I think about it, we probably did not hit the ammunition dump), and a few pounds of darkdrop coffee, a favorite among Khanigans. We left soon after, as we wished to avoid any further altercations with their navy.

I am proud of all my zailors, as we all suffered some sort of wound in the battle, yet they performed admirably given our lowly circumstances. Speaking of which, our ship is in terrible condition, and unfortunately the Leadbeater is clearly straining from all the action. I think it might be time to upgrade to a more powerful ship, lest the _Apocryphal Canon_ become my tomb.

* * *

June 10, 1876

I wish those damn things would stop glaring at me.

If I had to choose a single place to declare the most aesthetically pleasing in the entire Neath, I would choose the Principals of Coral. The presence of the islands themselves are preceded by a ghostly, silvery-blue glow obscured by light fog in the distance. As one approaches closer, great reefs of all kinds of coral emerge out of the smooth obsidian sea, their full array of colors shining in the eerie phosphorescent light of no source. In the shallower parts, underneath the lapping waves, the flush of colorful reefs are accentuated with countless fish, eels, prawns, and cephalopods normally encountered at much deeper reefs, but drawn closer to the surface by the plentiful food here. I hear it from my friends in Neathology that the underground contains eldritch colors unique to this sunless world, subtle in their discernability, but powerful in their effect. Among these is what is called "Apocyan" (if I remember it correctly), a shade of blue brought of long memories carried in the primeval reefs, brilliant and drenched in millennia of lessons learned.

The Relenting Bo-sun described to me some of the dangers of the Principals; bound-sharks, giant eels, and the reefs themselves are often extremely slippery and littered with jagged protrusions lying just below the surface of the water. Like with most of the ports, however, the most unique danger of the Principals is the attitudes and culture of the people there. Chess is venerated as more than a game of wit; mastery is the highest and most respected skill among the inhabitants of the port and most disputes are decided by the moves on a checkered board. It is more than simply obsession, not even just a way of life, but reality incarnate for some of those souls. Each second is a cornucopia of potential moves of knights, bishops, and kings moving to black and white squares on an eight by eight board. In fact, it almost seems as if the coral itself were shaped like pieces of a chessboard as I could swear that one of the rocks overlooking Port Cecil was like a knight.

Speaking of which, the largest of the ports in the Principles is Port Cecil, a very fascinating town that continues the two main themes of this place, chess and coral. The buildings are of a baroque style one finds in the older districts of London, except they are pared directly out of the coral and rock of the reef like Coptic temples, and are decorated in (you guessed it) checkerboard patterns and chess figures. Most of the people appear to be former academic types that still wear their fashions from their days in university but have not been kept up with age and gradually became worn down into patched rags. The very oldest of the residents carry encrustations of coral on them like stony buboes of plague from a virulent Medusa. The few folks not obsessed with checkerboard strategy games run the shops and main employment of the town; they pay a pittance to the others who harvest the bounties of the reef to afford meager scraps of food so that they may spend more time on the simulated field of battle. I asked one of the shopkeeps if they ever had the urge to engage in a game with the other residents, and they shuddered and explained that "There's danger moving them pieces around, I avoid it if I can."

Assuming one is not up for a game of chess, the most common reason to visit Port Cecil is to harvest the scintillack deposits on the exposed reef sections. These beautiful coral gems go for excellent prices at the Wolfstack Exchange as their eerie glow makes them popular for jewelry, though you can apparently also brew tea with them (very salty, earthy tea most likely). As with any profitable venture in the Neath, great risk comes with prospecting the Principles for numerous ne'er-do-wells populate the outer reaches of the atolls to hide from naval enforcers. The local fauna might also pose a threat, and Principalities are known for being the final resting place of wrecked ships that might have unleash some more exotic creatures. Besides that, the coral can be slippery and sharp, and skeletons with stalactites piercing their bones litter some of the denser collections of rock stakes. Getting lost is similarly a common danger for outsiders given the propensity for the geography of the surrounding land to form into labyrinthine corridors of impassible fossilized polyps. Fully aware of this and undeterred, I lead a party of my zailors and officers out to the mazes south of the Port.

Even in the dead bushlands of the coral keys, the radiating bluish glow is bright enough that our need for lanterns is limited, and we can watch our steps well enough most of the time. Besides the spikes, we also have to step over the people who come to the wilds outside of town to lie on the coral bed and stare at the false stars. I tried to strike up conversation with one, a Dreaming Codger with rocky polyps instead of a head of hair, but he seemed to be too deep in an existential dream to respond. I laid down next to him a likewise gazed at the ceiling, and though it was a relatively relaxing experience, I soon grew bored and we were on our way. Out on the southern edge of the island, we found some shoreline that radiated especially vividly while the waves crashed against the shore. It is illegal to mine coral on the island, but no law or custom says one cannot pick up the broken pieces of scintillack they find.

For anyone in the future reading this and interested in harvesting the coral here, allow me to share some wisdom. First, know what you are looking for. Scinitillack is white to a light blue in color, smooth with an adamantine luster like pearl crossed with diamond, and variable in size and density depending on the coral that produced them. Second, where and how to find them. Because the coral keys of the Principles are protected by ordinance from direct mining, the best place to find them lying about is on coastlines with rough zee water, with some luck the force of the waves might dislodge a few for you to take. Third, acquisition. Be careful around the Zeeshore because, as I have made very clear, those areas are very slippery and the water is filled with dangerous creatures, low and slow is the way to go.

We crawl along the ground and grip the rocks tightly to avoid slipping on the slick beaches, searching for a few lumps of organic gemstones. This part of the island must be a favorite for other scintillack prospectors because it is almost stripped clean of loose pieces; in two hours we only managed to find three decently sized chunks. Soaked with spray and with aching knees, we eventually decided there was no more use in scouring the scraps of previous scavengers and called it a day.

I will now confess something very queer and probably borne of my paranoia, yet I feel I must say this. Strangely, very strangely, those little lumps I picked up that now sit in my drawer feel somewhat alive. Really, all of the Principles of Coral seem to be alive, and not in a poetic, "The corals are alive with the sound of music" sense or some other silliness. What I mean is that, the entire place is a singular, thriving being. Yes, I understand that the reef is technically a construction of billions of little polyps and in that sense one might consider it a single collective organism, but it is more than that. It feels like there is an _intelligence_ here, and that it is watching those trespassing upon it. These little chunks of glowing coral are likewise part of that intelligence, spies that we voluntarily pick up and carry with us so that they may see the world and peep on our private affairs. Honestly, I'm quite certain that I'm either totally paranoid or frighteningly accurate, and I'm not sure which is worse.

We passed the Dreaming Codger on our way back. As I stepped over him, he seemed to be riled from his rest and weakly grabbed my leg.

"Taking the pieces of Shining Mind brings it no closer to ending the game. Let it rest, find its way down. The next move has yet to be made. Dissolution is an inevitability when we let it," he said.

By the time I took notice he had retired to his slumber, and I can only speculate that his experience here has brought him closer in spirit to whatever genus loci exists in this coral board.

We are still in port as we wait for the tide to come in so that we can leave this eldritch place. I placed the scintillack chunks in separate little boxes in my writing desk so I can keep an eye out on the mischievous buggers. They laugh at me. I expected that writing this would sufficiently pass the time until we may leave, but that is evidently not the case. Perhaps I shall go down to the port and play a game of chess, I've actually beaten the Relenting Bo-sun quite decisively a few times, so I think I am ready.

* * *

Time begin

white pawn to c4, black pawn to e6, white knight to f3, black pawn to d5, white pawn to d4, black knight to f6, white knight to c3, black bishop to e7, white bishop to g5, black castle, white pawn to e3, black pawn to h6, white bishop to h4, black pawn to b6, white pawn takes black pawn on d5, black knight takes white pawn on d5, white bishop takes black bishop on e7, black queen takes white bishop on e7, white knight takes black knight on d5, black pawn takes white knight on d5, white rook to c1, black bishop to e6, white queen to a4, black pawn to c5,white queen to a3, black rook to c8, white bishop to b5, black pawn to a6, white pawn takes black pawn on c5, black pawn takes white pawn on c5, white castle, black rook to a7, white bishop to e2, black knight to d7, white knight to d4, black queen to f8, white knight takes black bishop on e6, black pawn takes white knight on e6, white pawn to e4, black pawn to d4, white pawn to f4, black queen to e7, white pawn to e5, black rook to b8, white bishop to c4, black king to h8, white queen to h3, black knight to f8, white pawn to b3, black pawn to a5, white pawn to f5, black pawn takes white pawn at f5, white rook takes black pawn at f5, black knight to h7, white rook to f1, black queen to d8, white queen to g3, black rook to e7, white pawn to h4, black rook to b7, white pawn to e6, black rook to c7, white queen to e5, black queen to e8, white pawn to a4, black queen to d8, white rook to f2, black queen to e8, white rook to f3, black queen to d8, white bishop to d3, white queen to e4, black knight to f6, white rook takes black knight at f6, black pawn takes white rook at f6, white rook takes black pawn at f6, black king to g8, white bishop to c4, black king to h8, white queen to f4, black king to g8, white rook takes black pawn at h6, black rook takes white pawn at e6, white queen to f6, black rook to g7, white bishop takes black rook at e6, black queen takes white bishop at e6, white queen takes black queen at e6, black rook to f7, white queen to e8, black king to g7, white queen to h8

Checkmate.

white and black and up and down and

white and black and up and down and

white and black and up and down and

white and black and up and down and

white and black and up and down and

white and black and up and down and

white and black and up and down and

white and black and up and down and

white and black and up and down and

white and black and up and down and

white and black and up and down and

white and black and up and down and

Checkmate.

* * *

Dear me,

Remind yourzelf to give navigator lotz off moneyz bekuz she iz good.

From,

me

* * *

June 13, 1876

Happy birthday to me.

For my birthday, I got to be locked in my cabin as part of an effort to rehabilitate me from temporary chess addiction. Of course, it's not my fault that all those b_rds kept challenging me to games, I had to defend my honor. Had they given me just a little while longer I could have defeated every two-bit half-wit player in Port Cecil, and my hands were only mildly bleeding! The Bo-sun and the crew decided that for my own good I ought to be locked up until I no longer suffered withdrawal, they even restrained me for the first day and removed my notes because I was drawing checkerboards and pieces and playing with those. Of course, I got it back otherwise this would be impossible; actually, the word impossible should never be in a Neather's vocabulary, it gets misused often. It also seems that the Cosmopolitan Navigator got into the notes to muck about with them and gaslight me to upping her pay. Cheeky girl, have to discipline her when I get out, a through thrashing with a game of chess ought to put her in her place.

Oh, and the scintillack lumps are finally minding their own business, thank goodness.

* * *

June 16, 1876

I fear we are approaching the endurance threshold of the mind; perhaps we may have passed it. The crew seem restless, and those with hard heads or hard life on the Zee exude an uncomfortable calm of deathly severity. Every minute without work we try to huddle together around the pale electric lights of the ship, afraid of the lonesome dark. Many refuse to do their duties without someone accompanying them. The sobs of zailors can be heard too clearly in the night, mixing with the eerie rhythm of engines to form a kind of haunting melody that rings through the metal corridors. No-one mentions any of this, but it's obvious, and only accentuates the strain.

The darkness itself, though common enough for most Londoners to feel welcoming and familiar, has begun to permeate the parts of the ship still lit up. The shadows are growing bolder, creeping further into the cones of brightness emitted by our lamps and candles. The ebony conquers the ivory inch by inch throughout the cabins. As long as there is fuel in the belly of our beast, we may still prevail against the predatory void, but fuel is running short with no sign of resupply for days at least. What will happen when the black finally consumes the ship? What wouldn't happen then?

Of course, perhaps, all that paranoia is the terror speaking, emboldened by my own deteriorating grasp on reality. My dreams have been alternating between darkness, sunlight, and chess, sometimes all three at once. Maybe those nightmares are bleeding through to the waking world, it would explain the eyes that randomly appear and disappear on the Zee's surface out of the corner of my vision. Now more than ever I wish that I could crack open a box of golden glory from the surface, soothe my weary soul with some truth.

That will have to wait. For now, we are on course back to London, and if we are lucky we might run into the Shepherd's Isles for a spot of tea and biscuits. Hopefully the peaceful village there might offer some reprieve from the unrelenting isolation of wide Zee.

The Eyes of the Zee are still watching, and I don't know which God I should pray to.

* * *

June 21, 1876

I am having the strangest luck with rocks.

Despite its name, the Shepherd Isles no longer deal in sheep hearding; most animals have a difficult time adjusting to the deep dark of the Neath (that or they decide to have a mind of their own like the Ratty Gangs that conquered my pantry once).Shepherd Islanders mostly deal in fantastical stories of what transpires in their little corner of the world. As I am quick to remind myself, however, never take the Neath for boring, and surely the tales might be false but they are certainly interesting. A certain section of the island holds some prestige as a perfect picnicking place providing pleasant, picturesque panoramas. The Standing Stones, a collection of three large freestanding stones (the Islanders may have creative plots but lack creativity in naming), stand at the north end of the largest island and have a variety of different potential origins that the residents detail. I shall recount a few favorites…

"A farmer enraged Storm, so the God of thunder and spite dislodged three rocks to crush the farmer, his wife, and their dog."

"The Rubbery Men hauled them from wherever they hail for unknown ritualistic purposes, and when nobody is watching they gather around the Stones and dance for hours on end."

"They are the fingers of an enormous Clay Man that were broken off when he climbed out of the Zee."

"The Stones were here before the island. When the Shepherd Isles fell with the rest of London the Stones pierced through the land."

"They are, in fact, not stone but fungal growths with the hardness, grain structure, density, tenacity, color, luster, texture, and inorganicity of rock."

Whatever the truth may be, the Stones are at least very pleasing to be around if one plans for an outdoor lunch with a dozen or so people. My crew felt quite relaxed to be around somewhat familiar surroundings and enjoying stale scones on the hill of what used to be a pleasant suburb. A local man who invited himself along with us kept the zailors entertained with his wild tales about Drownies living on one of the island across the way, and we all partook in Zee-shanties when the consignment of fungal wine was distributed. I may have partook too much, as stumbled and bashed the back of my head into one of the Stones, and as I writhed in pain at its base I made a feasibly landmark discovery. Buried by a shallow layer of dirt was a queer material that shone in bizarre colors by lamplight. I picked it up and dusted off this detritus to uncover that it was a chunk of solid bismuth as large as your palm, perfectly and geometrically shaped like a ziggurat not dissimilar to those you find in the Tomb Colonies. I presented it to the crew, half of whom dismissed it as the happenstance of nature and the other half appraised it as a possible artifact of the First City. The Bardic Islander with us spun a yarn of how it had been a gift of Stone for good luck, but I felt that one was likely disingenuous.

Not long after my incidental archeology we returned to the _Apocryphal Canon_ to continue our journey. The ambiguous eolith is sitting next to the scintillack lumps in my drawer, maybe the they are conversing, I expect nothing less from those notorious gossips. I have yet to figure out what might be done with the artifact, who might want it, or be convinced of wanting it. The Academics may well pay nicely for it, but then again they are a discerning bunch that might judge it as hardly worth more than their shoe leather. I believe that such questions are for a time when London is within view, and there are many waves between here and London we have yet to cross.

* * *

June 21, 1876

I am having the strangest luck with rocks.

Despite its name, the Shepherd Isles no longer deal in sheep hearding; most animals have a difficult time adjusting to the deep dark of the Neath (that or they decide to have a mind of their own like the Ratty Gangs that conquered my pantry once).Shepherd Islanders mostly deal in fantastical stories of what transpires in their little corner of the world. As I am quick to remind myself, however, never take the Neath for boring, and surely the tales might be false but they are certainly interesting. A certain section of the island holds some prestige as a perfect picnicking place providing pleasant, picturesque panoramas. The Standing Stones, a collection of three large freestanding stones (the Islanders may have creative plots but lack creativity in naming), stand at the north end of the largest island and have a variety of different potential origins that the residents detail. I shall recount a few favorites…

"A farmer enraged Storm, so the God of thunder and spite dislodged three rocks to crush the farmer, his wife, and their dog."

"The Rubbery Men hauled them from wherever they hail for unknown ritualistic purposes, and when nobody is watching they gather around the Stones and dance for hours on end."

"They are the fingers of an enormous Clay Man that were broken off when he climbed out of the Zee."

"The Stones were here before the island. When the Shepherd Isles fell with the rest of London the Stones pierced through the land."

"They are, in fact, not stone but fungal growths with the hardness, weight, density, tenacity, color, luster, texture, and inorganicity of rock."

Whatever the truth may be, the Stones are at least very pleasing to be around if one plans for an outdoor lunch with a dozen or so people. My crew felt quite relaxed to be around somewhat familiar surroundings and enjoying stale scones on the hill of what used to be a pleasant suburb. A local man who invited himself along with us kept the zailors entertained with his wild tales about Drownies living on one of the island across the way, and we all partook in Zee-shanties when the consignment of fungal wine was distributed. I may have partook too much, as stumbled and bashed the back of my head into one of the Stones, and as I writhed in pain at its base I made a feasibly landmark discovery. Buried by a shallow layer of dirt was a queer material that shone in bizarre colors by lamplight. I picked it up and dusted off this detritus to uncover that it was a chunk of solid bismuth as large as your palm, perfectly and geometrically shaped like a ziggurat not dissimilar to those you find in the Tomb Colonies. I presented it to the crew, half of whom dismissed it as the happenstance of nature and the other half appraised it as a possible artifact of the First City. The Bardic Islander with us spun a yarn of how it had been a gift of Stone for good luck, but I felt that one was likely disingenuous.

Not long after my incidental archeology we returned to the _Apocryphal Canon_ to continue our journey. The ambiguous eolith is sitting next to the scintillack lumps in my drawer, maybe the they are conversing, I expect nothing less from those notorious gossips. I have yet to figure out what might be done with the artifact, who might want it, or be convinced of wanting it. The Academics may well pay nicely for it, but then again they are a discerning bunch that might judge it as hardly worth more than their shoe leather. I believe that such questions are for a time when London is within view, and there are many waves between here and London we have yet to cross.

* * *

June 23, 1876

We have finally returned to London, and not a second too early. Frayed nerves and splintering psyches are healed near immediately by the sight of the glowing light of the Wolfstack Docks, the feel of the cobblestone streets underneath the boots of weary zailors, and the smell of the smog choked air emanating from the smokestacks. We shall stay for a good few days until we are prepared for another expedition into the wide-dark Zee, and I must recruit new crewmen willing to delve into the abyss. I hope their days will be filled with merriment and their nights restful; mine will be wracked with paranoia.

I do not know how clever the Constables believe themselves to be, but I am ever more clever. So when they believed that I would not notice they had ransacked my flat, they not only ruined the carefully tailored decor of the sitting room, they insulted me as an individual. Yes, the nightwatchmen of the City of Constant Night believe that healthy suspicion justifies them in turning over every cushion on my sofa, but not enough to face me when I find that the wardrobe has been moved from covering up the crack in the plaster. A presumption that I am engaging in illicit trade has clearly taken hold in the mind of the authorities, which is correct of course, but I cannot say how much of the evidence held against me is factual and legitimate. Whatever the case may be, I do not intend to give them anymore evidence to incriminate me.

With that in mind, I have a plan: we shall not return to London, maybe not ever. The more time I spend in Imperial waters, the closer they are to catching me in the act. Life on the Zee can be quite frugal if you know the right spots to find supplies and fuel, and of course you don't pay anybody for your rent and roof over your head. From my experiences with the Cumean Canal, no serious customs investigations take place there for fear of London uncovering its own secret operations. Ergo, I can continue the sunlight smuggling mostly unabated so long as I keep clear of the Wolfstack Docks, but in doing so I will most likely cause a great deal of distrust with the crew. No zailor wishes to remain at Zee for longer than necessary, and staying at Zee for the entirety of the presumable future cannot be good for morale. I haven't the foggiest on how to break the news to the crew, if I should at all; no matter what, I can hardly imagine any decision resulting in anything other than mutiny. And what is a captain without her crew?

But I am the captain. The authority lies with me and I am responsible first and foremost for what shall happen to my ship.

And the first thing that I shall do with my ship is sell it for its highest value. The _Apocryphal Canon_ served me well over this past year, it has been my home and hearth at Zee, but it will do me good no more. For this upcoming expedition, I require a better vessel on which to continue my odyssey, one with ceilings that are tall enough for me to stand in and which doesn't make that ear-splitting groaning noise any time we shift gears. With the profits of selling the Canon and my entrepreneurial endeavors I will procure a ship suitable for my needs at Zee, and from then on I shall be a woman free of the strictures of this d_ble autocracy!

God, I hope I'm making the right decision.

* * *

June 27, 1876

Today, my preparations were unveiled to the crew to their infinite surprise. Of course, first they were impressed by the revelation that the _Apocryphal Canon_ had been substituted with a new vessel, one that thankfully has plumbing. To them, I presented the cheapest Phorcyd-class cruiser that Wolfstack could scrounge out of its drydocks, the very best that the least amount of money could purchase, the _Sanctimonious Supplicant_! The crew was quite pleased by the opportunity for a change of scenery from the cramped iron caverns of the _Canon_ 's underbelly; except for the stoker that had just gotten used to the particular rhythm of the engine's pounding. The officers especially enjoyed that they would no longer be sharing their quarters with the lowly plebian zailors, the Compensating Artilleryman most of all due to his obsession with hierarchy and the maintenance there of. They would of course be responsible for transferring the furnishings that once rested in the Canon to their new home, I was exhausted by the difficult business of bargaining a good price for the vessel.

While they were celebrating the new acquisition, I had to calm them down to deliver the bad news. When I proclaimed that I would avoid returning to London for the foreseeable future, they erupted in rancorous laughter, which I admit I should have expected. After I repeated myself with sober gravity, the incredulous amusement looks on their faces transformed into incredulous dread. My explanation was in order, and some seemed to be swayed by the rationalization, but most remained unmoved. It would be poor form to press zailors of my own nation into service, so everyone was offered the opportunity to leave with no ill will or contractual obligations. Two-thirds left immediately, and the third that did not were in the process of intensive soul-searching.

Of course, zailors are a dime a dozen, any one of them will join you on an expedition to heart of the Presbyterate given enough convincing and mushroom wine. The key folks to keep were the officers, whose expertise, I hate to admit, I have come to significantly rely upon.

The Compensating Artilleryman mulled it over, and gave his response, "Ma'am, you're a scoundrel and renegade of a most despicable character. On the other hand, I am having a bl_dy good time! I've been away from the cannons for too long, and the never ending struggle for life at Zee is just what I've needed to refuel my vigor. So with due respect ma'am, you're not getting rid of me just yet."

The Cosmopolitan Navigator seemed cheerful throughout, mostly enthused by the possibility of a wider space to play hide-and-seek in. Her response was more curt and frank, "Things are good now so why do I want to leave? I will leave when things get bad."

The Relenting Bo'sun per the usual kept quiet and insular about his opinions. Only when the attention squared centered on his somber tone did he utter his decision, "Aye, I always figur'd I'd die at Zee, an' who is me to keep ye from holdin' up the mandate of fate as she wrote it. I'll come with ye, don't you worry."

With my comrades affirming their commitment to my service, I felt a wave of relief roll over me. They might not be the finest to ever zail the Sunless Sea, but they are the finest I've met. The remainder that did not defect went to make their preparations for the long voyage, as did I. I have found some unfortunates willing to sign on to fill out the crew, and sold whatever valuables I could not take with me. I write this in my refreshingly spacious apartment on the little coffee table that did not fit the décor of my personal cabin. This place I shall not return to, and these walls will become alien in due time. The Zee is now my home, and the _Sanctimonious Supplicant_ is the center my life.

Tomorrow, we leave port for the last time.

Auf wiedersehen, for the last time.

* * *

July 1, 1876

My mind has already become unsettled, but it is too late to recant my decisions.

As the shores of Mutton Island grow vaguer in the distance, that awful, immaterial pressure of the open Zee once again squeezes the ship like a firm hand on a ball. The crew, now mostly comprised of newcomers with no expectations for the long voyage that awaits them, are merry and derisive toward the difficulties of life on the lackadaisical waves. The _Sanctimonious Supplicant_ is a powerful and impressive thing, it cuts through the waves like a butcher's cleaver through cave herring, but it still feels meek in comparison to the enormity of the dark Zee. So long as our fuel lasts, we may feel powerful, but once the coke has run out, who knows what monsters the blackness will bring us.

And yet, while I am embosomed by darkness, my spirit is plagued by a brilliant light. In my waking hours, headaches beset me and cause fatigue, and the rest of my strength is sapped trying to keep myself tall and upright in front of the zailors so as not to emanate weakness. Once the time for sleep arrives, I am afflicted by horrible visions laminated in gold reflecting a terribly awesome light that haunts me even after the dreams are concluded. In short, I'm bl_dy exhausted. These nightmares are not very new to me; since the first expedition to the surface I have been suffering their delusions, but their frequency and severity are increasing as we drive closer to the Cumean Canal. The same images repeat every time: blinding light, two towers, the sun, and rising to the top of each. Their meaning I cannot divine, the landscapes are too alien… but I feel comforted by them.

I have not revealed this to any of my cohort, at this tender moment their faith in my decisions would dissipate and mutiny would be card on the table. I will have to practice strict discipline on the zailors and myself once we reach the surface. If they gaze too long into the glory…

That glory and gold and godly thing

I must rest.

* * *

July 5th, 1876

Put words on the page, it matters not what is just do it, fool. Keep writing, nothing but the page is important, fill this blank space. Fill this blank space and keep the blank inside filled. Do it or you'll blanche and bleach and burn your bones with that holy light of the most exquisite radiance. Keep sending out those zailors to arrest the light but stay inside, let them bath in dazzling dancing light. NO! The light is poison, you choke if you let it in, but nothing is like its terrible, terrible beauty, then stop loving it! But, stop! STOP! CEASE! HALT!

Keep writing, never stop, this page is too white, its alabaster façade reflects the light too much, its like that d_ned ball of fire up there, too bright too white! Paint it black with the words, this ink will stain the page my hands my soul. Embrace the darkness, that is where is you belong, down in the Zee. Deeper, downward, in the abyssal clutches of currents of polished basalt on pitch, black as the absence of light. Storm, Stone, Salt gods above, southward, eastward, save me. Gods save me from that glory, its hellish yellow glare burns through my skin, a purification and lustration of my most blasphemous sins. Let me be cleansed of this craving, give in to the glory, glory, hallelujah.

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! NO MORE! Enough of it, enough of it all! I just want be at peace, want to suffer no longer, this pull between light and dark, ivory and ebony, seen and unseeable. As above, so below…

I should sleep.

I need rest.

Just one second in the sun...

* * *

July 14th, 1876

I seem to have… misplaced my mind. It's in its rightful place now, my consciousness is no longer in turbulent throws of gilded ravings. The crew were reasonably uncomfortable during and after this experience, and I am told that one of the guards by my door had the urge to hurl himself onto the top deck after I spoke of the ephemeral luxuries from drinking light. But, how am I to be blamed for the narrow-minded s_ds misconstruing the effervescent intoxication of the su- No, I am in control. No more such nonsense can be tolerated.

With no clear destination established, and few wanting to go to the Isle of Cats, the Carnelian Coast won the vote. It seems that, nevertheless, these zailors still wish to associate with some feline folks.

The Carnelian Coast is a renowned and ironic misnomer. The shore received its Christian name before the explorers even stepped off their ships, and then discovered that the jungle crags and toothed cliffs entombed vast quantities of sapphires. Since then, mineralogists have petitioned for a renaming of the geographical place in a heart-breaking attempt to maintain their sanity. Zailors know it mostly for the Sapphire Exchange and the Blue Bazaar, the two ventricles that compose the commercial heart of the colony. Goods and currency enter, sapphires depart for the wide Zee.

Then there are the tigers. I know little about them, so I expect some elucidation on the subject when we arrive.

* * *

July 15th, 1876

I just witnessed the most bizarre thing I have ever seen in my entire time in the Neath. Sun.

Sun in the Neath. Yet, so mortifying and grotesque, a mockery of the natural brilliance that we light deprived masses yearn for.

At half past three, the entire ship was alerted by the hollering of one of the zailors on watch. She wailed so terribly about "the rise of the Imperial Dawn" and "the fury of the false judgment." That was when we all saw the light on the horizon, as if daybreak struck through the cavern to the west and shined the radiance of the rising sun into the whole Neath. First it was a dull, lusterless orange haze peering above the sooty emerald Zee. Instead of the relief or anticipation I remember feeling when I saw a sunrise, I felt perturbed, dreading something awful would come. Then, the orange became a dirty, foul gold, far too bright to look at directly. The light was not only blinding, it was oppressive, tyrannical, incensed even. We collectively yelled in anguish trying to shield our eyes from the eldritch blaze, crawling along the deck to find a spot of shade that we may be spared from the despotic, beaming light.

But what terrifies me the most is that it seemed to want exactly that. Whatever shone such an awful, awesome radiance, it felt as though it communicated through that radiance… and what it said was something close to "Obey." It forced us to grovel in front of it, fear the magnitude of its unfettered supremacy, hide before the overwhelming gravitas it exuded in citrine rays leaden with contempt. With some moments to reflect, I recalled something from Machiavelli about rulership, "As love and hate can hardly exist in cooperation, it is better to be feared than loved." This force, whatever it was, wanted to rule over us, and it wanted to inspire terror to achieve that.

And then it was eternal night once more. The grey-blue glow of the ship's electric lamps provided the only means of sight, and we could not even identify where that infernal sun had come from. I have no idea how long that event lasted; perhaps it was merely a flash that we stretched into a longer affair in our feeble minds. Perhaps it was a shared hallucination we all conjured from out time on the Surface.

I hope it is the latter, Gods only know what abomination created such blasphemous brilliance.

* * *

Author's Notes: I thoroughly enjoyed Sunless Skies, currently on my second run through the game.


End file.
